


Creatures of the Night

by chroniclackofselfpreservation



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders Has Panic Attacks, Betrayal, Character Death, Curses, Demon!Deceit, Flashbacks, Hunt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lamp - Freeform, Magic, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Multi, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Original Universe, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Polyamory, Queen - Freeform, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, Villain Dragon Witch, Whump, arcanist, dragon witch is a thing, fight, individual trigger warnings before each chapter, monster!Deceit, no beta reader we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-01-30 06:30:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 32
Words: 108,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21423727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chroniclackofselfpreservation/pseuds/chroniclackofselfpreservation
Summary: Roman is cursed to face the same immortal demon every night and must either survive until the dawn, or fall prey to its ravenous hunger. Can his friends defeat the Dragon Witch Ursula and break his curse, or will she get the best of them all?
Relationships: LAMP - Relationship, lol i thought i could write platonic LAMP but i'm failing so hard, nothing explicit - Relationship, romantic LAMP - Relationship, slow burn that's mainly boys being oblivious and dumb
Comments: 162
Kudos: 122





	1. for it is important that awake people be awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman's nightly routine is a little more on the unique side of things... Logan is Exasperated™

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: violence/fighting, guns (fired), pain
> 
> The title for this chapter is from "A Ritual to Read to Each Other" by William E. Stafford.

Roman's gut twisted painfully and his eyes snapped open. He sat up. His room was still dark, the heavy curtains blocking out whatever moonlight would have fallen across his bed, but he didn’t need it. He’d lain his clothes and equipment out before going to sleep a few hours earlier. The routine was so ingrained into his mind at this point, light became arbitrary.

Roman’s movements were almost mechanical as he folded back the covers and slipped into his shirt, pants, and armor with long-earned efficiency. The armor was a gift from Logan, who stood as the only person Roman had ever told about his nightly endeavors. It was made of a tough but flexible leather that wasn’t as protective as metal, but far quieter—which Roman found worked to his advantage most nights. Logan, being the obsessive problem-solver he so often was, hated the fact that there was nothing he could do to alleviate the curse. It had been sealed in Roman’s own blood—against his will, of course, but it made no difference. According to the dragon witch, whose brilliant plan it was to have Roman fight a demon for the rest of his life, had told him that he was the only one capable of keeping it at bay.

_ Yeah, right, _ he thought sourly as he wrapped a ruby amulet around his bicep. Another “gift” from that blasted dragon witch. Roman had given up pestering her for a remedy for the curse several months ago, finding the long haul up into the mountains far too much work just to be rejected. He couldn’t even kill the stupid thing. It was immortal. He could weaken it, sure, and make things easier for himself for a few weeks, but it always came back.

Sometimes stronger.

What did the dragon witch expect to happen? Eventually, he would die. Whether it was the demon’s doing was yet to be seen, but he definitely wouldn’t outlive it. What then? Would she simply pass the curse on to another? Continue the viscous cycle of torment? _ Stop complaining, _ he scolded himself, pressing his lips into a thin line and cinching the leather guard tight about his forearm. _ It’s been a year. You should be over this by now. _ Picking up the pace, Roman holstered his two pistols on either side of his belt, slipped a dagger into a sheath secured around his stomach beneath his shirt, and picked up his sword. He was best with the blade, though he wasn’t foolish enough to go in without back up weaponry. He despised the guns most of all. They were loud and clunky and gave him a headache to use, but more often than not they got him out of perilous situations, so he kept them. The sword was heavy, though Roman was so used to it now, it felt comfortably weighted.

Doing a quick double-check to make sure he had everything he needed, he opened his door and stepped out into the hallway. He closed the door behind him with a soft click. Roman had grown accustomed to traversing their house in silence, dreading the possibility of Patton or Virgil discovering him sneaking out loaded with weapons. He turned a corner, about to head down the stairs, when he noticed a warm amber glow trailing up the wall. Someone was still up—or they’d left the light on, at least. Was Virgil having trouble sleeping again? Or was Patton indulging in some late-night baking? Both options were likely. Could Roman manage to sneak by without being noticed? Thoughts raced through his head a mile a minute. Something inside him pulled, like someone plucking a bow string drawn dangerously taut. The curse compelled him forward, and he nearly stumbled down the steps as he pulled back. He had no choice; he had to leave. Could he sneak out his room window? It was a long way to the ground and the only tree was by Patton’s bedroom window. He’d risk injuring himself by jumping, which could put his life in jeopardy later. He’d have to try and sneak past whoever was out there. It wasn’t worth having to face the demon with a twisted ankle. Perhaps he could knock them out and convince them it was all a dream? He shook his head. He couldn’t attack any of them. It would eat him up inside.

Slowly, he peeked out over the banister. A short reading lamp sat on an end table beside the couch, barely light enough to keep the shadows in the corners of the room at bay. Bathed in gold light, the figure in the chair turned out to be Logan, hands clasped in his lap and eyes staring vaguely at the wall, deep in thought. Relaxing somewhat, Roman straightened and continued down the stairs as quietly as possible. The third one down was always squeaky. Logan hadn’t noticed him yet, and even as Roman approached, he stared at the wall, chewing on his bottom lip and mouthing silent thoughts to himself. Roman couldn’t help but smile.

“Logan,” he said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Logan jumped, startled. “Wha—oh, it’s you. I was wondering when you’d leave.”

“What are you doing up? It’s the middle of the night.”

Logan cocked his head to the side, considering. “The sun sets at nine p.m. and rises at seven-fifteen a.m.. By all accounts, we are less than halfway into the night,” he said, gesturing to the otherwise dark and empty house. He cleared his throat. “I, er, wanted to see you off before you... left.”

“I’ll be back before the sun rises, Lo,” Roman said, waving a dismissive hand and trying to hide the strain in his voice. “I appreciate the sentiment, but you can’t stay up like this every night.”

“I think you’ll find there are many things I can do,” Logan said, his normal sternness hardening into something akin to anger. “One being making sure you arrive back home in one piece. Are you positive I cannot accompany you? I’m sure there are options we haven’t explored yet.”

“Logan, you—“ Roman tripped forward into Logan as the curse tugged at him once again, endlessly insistent. Logan caught him, but Roman quickly righted himself again, struggling to keep the pain from showing on his face. He cleared his throat. “You know I can’t do that. You being there would only distract me and put me in more danger. I’d be too worried about you getting hurt.”

Logan studied his face for a moment before sighing and letting him go. “Very well, but you better come back.”

Roman put on a smile, chuckling. “Of course I will. Have a little faith, Lo.”

“I shall try,” he muttered as Roman opened the front door. He glanced back one last time only to see Logan lower himself back into the arm chair and lose himself in pained thought.

* * *

The forest was only two blocks away from their house, so Roman didn’t have to walk very far. He’d devised a route through the neighborhood that led him behind houses and between backyard fences to lessen the probability of someone spotting him waltzing around dressed like a walking armory. Most nights, however, were largely uneventful save the occasional barking dog. The sudden noise used to scare Roman.

Now, he had bigger things to be scared of.

The forest dampened every noise as soon as Roman stepped through the tree line. Though he could still see civilization through the trees, he felt a thousand miles from any sort of help were something to happen. The curse wouldn't allow him to leave until the first signs of dawn—he would know, he'd tested it. Many times. The beginning was always the most dangerous part. The demon knew exactly where he was, and at what time he'd be there. The trick would be escaping into the darkness of the woods and losing him along the way. He shook off the nerves breeding in the pit of his stomach, and trudged deeper into the darkness, sword at the ready.

Ah, the darkness. He’d brought a flashlight only once before, and had barely escaped the night with his life. Turns out, a bright beam of light does more to give oneself away than to help locate a possible predator. He never made the mistake again. Since then, he’d become quite familiar with the dark. However, it was less of an old friend and more an impartial entity desiring entertainment regardless of who ended up on the wrong end of it. He took no solace in it, but rather treated it with deference and wary reverence.

Something shifted in the trees above him. Roman froze. Dense fog clung to the ground, curling around his legs like ghosts desperate for living touch. The moon was nothing more than a sliver, denying Roman what little light he usually counted on. The heavy slithering bounced around him, as if it couldn’t decide which direction it came from. Roman pressed his back up against a tree and held his sword in front of him.

_ “So brave,” _ a chilling voice hissed. Roman’s stomach dropped. _ “Have you not bored of this constant battle, yet, little prince?” _ Roman kept his eyes on the canopies and his mouth shut. He’d never figured out why both the dragon witch and the demon called him a prince, but he’d rather that than his own name. Roman refused to give it that power.

_ “I tire of this endless game. You drag out the inevitable,” _ the demon sighed. It sounded vaguely human, though if that human had swallowed shards of glass and gargled with shrapnel. The sound of the beast dragging its enormous body through the branches still eluded Roman, jumping around his head like he wore headphones that kept shorting out.

_ “Why?” _ it breathed so close to Roman’s ear, he could feel it. He tensed, swinging his sword around. It sunk into something solid. It took Roman a split second to realize that it wasn't a giant serpentine head, but the tree trunk. He tugged. It didn't budge. Terror swept through him in the same second as a grating laugh echoed around the trees. He abandoned the sword and hadn't so much as taken a step away when a wall of cold, hard scales slammed him back into the tree. He could feel the creature's muscles undulating and constricting beneath the smooth plating, slowly crushing him into the wood. It was dark, yes, but Roman had seen it before on nights with a full moon: a gold scaled beast with a body several times thicker than the trees and a head the size of a small car. Eyes like pools of molten lead the size of Roman's whole face and fangs longer than his arm. He'd only been caught by it a few times in the last year. Each time he'd nearly died. Though, he was ashamed to admit, they didn't usually happen quite this fast. 

He'd definitely set a new personal record. 

Luckily, he'd managed to pin his arms in front of his chest, so he could somewhat resist the creature's constricting. He took short shallow breaths and pushed outward with all of his strength, but it was a futile effort. The constricting halted, and the monster lowered it's head to meet Roman's eyes. 

_ "Tell me why." _

"You think I _ want _ to be here?" he spat. "A dragon witch cursed me."

_ "Dragon witch?" _

"Yes, the dragon witch named Ursula. You know, after a whole year of barely five words to me, you're suddenly really chatty," Roman said derisively, hoping to distract the beast from the fact that he was slowly reaching for one of his pistols. Not exactly easy when your arms are being crushed by a gigantic reptile, but progress was being made nonetheless.

_ "All this time and she still holds onto that ridiculous nickname. __You'd think she'd have learned to imprison me with more than a sniveling child," _it hissed, baring its enormous fangs. Roman paled, wriggling his arm toward the holster a little faster now. It reared up its head and tightened its hold. Roman cried out, the air slowly forced out of his lungs. He saw stars. 

_ "I am no troublesome pixie that can be held over by a simple curse. She will pay for this insul—" _

_ BANG! _

Roman drew and fired the pistol faster than he'd ever before. It hit just below the demon's eye, ricocheting off its scales and off into the night. The snake hissed angrily and released him, retreating in a spiral up the tree and into the canopies once more. It knew better than to stay in close range while the guns were out, regardless of it's tough armor. Roman may not like guns, but that didn't mean he didn't know how to use one. So far, the mouth and the eyes were the only weak spots he'd located. 

He dropped to the ground, heaving and retching. Roman scrambled to his feet. There was no time for recovery. He tore his sword from the tree and sprinted deeper into the forest. He needed to find shelter or somewhere to hide. While he couldn't see the serpent as well when it was in the trees, it couldn't move nearly as fast. If he managed to lose it, he may just have a chance.

_ Calm down, Roman. You've been doing this for three hundred and sixty-five nights, and you haven't lost a single one. Don't make tonight any different. _

The battle was nowhere near over, and the night had only just begun.

* * *

Roman fumbled for the key beneath the place mat. It was almost five-thirty in the morning, and though the sun hadn't technically risen yet, his curse had seen fit to release him as soon as the first hints of light played at the horizon. It was still relatively dark, the skyline glowing a pale blue-green against the starry indigo above it. His ribs ached, his knees and elbows were scraped, his clothes and face were streaked with mud, and he was covered in blood up to his elbows. Not his own. Last he checked, his blood was red, not black. It was the demon's, from when he'd driven his sword through the underside of its mouth. He hadn't seen his reflection yet, but he could imagine the horror show that was his appearance. The stuff never really dried, either. It remained sticky like tar and was an absolute nightmare to try and get out of the leather armor Logan made him—not to mention his own hair. 

Eventually, his sloppy fingers found the spare key and managed to stick it into the lock. He turned it, replaced it beneath the mat, and pushed the door open. The house smelled of cinnamon and happiness, due in great part to Patton's baking yesterday. The lamp still sat on in the living room, illuminating Logan's sleeping features. His glasses hung askew across his nose and some fancy-pants scientific book lay open on his lap. Roman closed the front door behind him as softly as he could manage, then froze with his foot inches above the floor. Virgil had just mopped last night. If Roman took one step off the front rug, he'd track mud, dirt, and demon blood through the entire house. Cursing under his breath, he leaned forward, reaching for the coat closet. He nearly fell on his face and woke the entire house, but in the end he'd acquired what he'd been looking for: his old jacket. It was worn, fraying, and impossibly comfortable, and would do exactly what Roman needed it to. He could always wash it later, right? Laying it open on the floor, Roman stepped onto it and proceeded to shuffle his way down the hall toward the stairs. True, he could have simply taken off his boots, but they were laced up tight and sticky with blood he didn't have the patience to deal with in the middle of the house. He'd see to it once he got to the bathroom and didn't have to worry about anyone seeing him. He passed by Logan, who had fallen asleep in the arm chair, snoring softly. 

It was a long, tenuous journey, but he eventually made it to the base of the stairs. There, he was met with a new problem. How was he supposed to make it upstairs on his jacket?

"Roman?" Logan muttered groggily, squinting at him. 

"Nothing, go back to sleep," Roman whispered, waving a hand at him. 

"What's all over your—_ is that blood?" _

"Yes, but be quiet!" Roman hissed. "You're going to wake up everyone else!"

Logan stood. "What do you mean _ yes? _ Are you hurt?" He reached a curious hand out toward the black goo covering his arms. 

"Don't touch it," Roman snapped. His temper was worn thin after the night he'd had, and the last thing he needed right now was a scientific analysis of demon blood. He sighed, "Sorry, Lo. I just... need to get to the bathroom. Could you get some towels or something to lay on the stairs so I can—" he started, but Logan apparently had other ideas. In one swift motion, he hooked an arm under Roman's knees and scooped him up into his arms. 

"What are you doing?" Roman demanded, "You're going to get it all over you."

"Irrelevant," Logan said, though his nose crinkled slightly at the stench of death covering his friend. "I shall simply carry you upstairs. It will be faster and more efficient. Don't worry about the jacket, I'll take care of it. Now," he shifted his grip, "are you sure you're not hurt?"

"Yeah," Roman said, though it came out as a strangled gasp. The way Logan was holding him put pressure on a bruise he'd gotten while the overgrown worm had tried smothering him in a swath of mud. Logan cocked an eyebrow and didn't move. Sighing dejectedly, Roman instructed him where he could place his hands to cause him the least amount of pain. After a few moments of readjusting, Logan set off up the stairs. Roman was impressed at how steady Logan was despite carrying his entire weight up the stairs. 

"Watch the wall," he grunted, and Roman tucked his feet in to keep from leaving streaks of mud down the hallway. They passed Patton's room, then Virgil's, then arrived at the bathroom. Logan set him down on the tile flooring, promising to fetch him a clean pair of clothes and a bag to place all of the blood spattered articles in. After one last concerned look, he closed the door and left Roman alone in the bathroom. 

He grimaced as he glanced at his reflection. Roman looked like he'd been run over by a garbage truck. Blood, dark and glossy as pitch, speckled his face and neck and clumped in his hair. It covered both forearms up to his elbows, as if he'd dipped his arms in black paint. Contrastingly, his own crimson blood had dried across his upper lip and chin from the bloody nose he'd received when flung into a tree. Sickly gray mud clung to the rest of him like plaster. Carefully, he peeled his clothes off and tossed them into a pile near the door. He'd had hopes of the washing machine saving them, but looking at them in a pathetic heap on the floor, he doubted anything could be done. He'd have to burn them later.

Returning his attention to the mirror, his throat constricted. His torso was mottled with a myriad of purple and green bruises, or maybe that was just more mud. They certainly _felt_ like bruises. His eyes trailed down his shoulders, then came to rest on the grimy amulet still tied to his upper arm. He turned it over in his hand, wiping the dirt from its surface.

_Think of it as insurance, _the dragon witch had written in a nice, instructional letter on how to handle his curse. _Insurance that you don't go dying on me too soon._ _Any injuries you sustain while wearing the amulet will heal as soon as you take it off. You won't even need to sleep, my prince. Easy as that. _

Scowling, he undid the clasp and pulled the necklace from his arm. Immediately, burning cold energy coursed through his body. He bowed forward and rested his elbows on the counter, biting his fist to keep from making a sound. It took a considerable amount of self control not to collapse to the floor and itch his gradually healing skin bloody. It felt like a million spiders with needles for legs crawling around inside him.

_Some healing magic, _Roman thought venomously, breathing hard through his nose. _Feels worse than healing normally. _

But it was faster. And Roman couldn't risk Patton or Virgil finding out simply because they touched a tender spot. There was a knock at the door. 

"Roman? I've got some new clothes and a trash bag, can I come in?"

"Hold on," he choked through gritted teeth. The sound was more like a whimper than Roman would have wished, but there were far more pressing matters for him to deal with than a measly voice crack. An entire year of this, and he still wasn't used to the feeling. How pathetic. He stumbled into the shower and pulled the curtain. 

"All right," he said, leaning heavily against the tiled wall. He _wasn't_ going to pass out. He been in worse shape on previous nights. This was nothing. Roman heard Logan open the door slowly, then silence. He heard the faint scrape of him picking up the amulet. Roman had explained its purpose to him the night he'd found out. Mainly because Logan had demanded to know how he wasn't a pile of mush every single night. No one could take a beating like that every twelve hours and still be walking, let alone acting like nothing was going on. 

"Are you going to be okay, Roman? Do you require any assistance?" He came closer to the curtain. 

"I'm fine. Thank you, Logan." _Please don't look, you'll only worry. Don't look. _

A pause. "Very well. I will await you downstairs when you are done cleaning up." Another long silence as Roman clenched and unclenched his fist as the healing magic completed its circuit around his body. The feeling eventually faded into a dull prickling. Logan sighed, set the amulet back down on the counter, and left. 

Roman let out a breath and cranked the faucet as far to the hot side as it would go. The water was scalding, but he didn't care. The demon blood slowly dissolved from his skin and hair, swirling down the drain in a disgusting black soup of mud and dirt. He wished he could wash it all away, scrub the demon from his pores and the pain from behind his ears. 

Clean water streamed down Roman's face in the place of the tears he did not shed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHH! First chapter down! This is my first work posted here on AO3, so I hope you all like it!


	2. and down they forgot as up they grew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, Roman's mom disappeared...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: child abuse, intense arguing, off-screen character death, car crash, blood, and mild injury.
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from "anyone lived in a pretty how town" by E. E. Cummings.

Stokemore, Missouri.

Age: 10

Roman sat at the kitchen counter tapping his pencil against his chin. The math homework for this week was fractions, and he hated fractions. The clock on the wall ticked softly, and the dishwasher thrummed on the opposite side of the counter. His parents had left to go grocery shopping an hour and a half ago. He was starting to get worried, which wasn't helping him finish his homework at all. Pushing back, he clambered down the stools that were still a bit too high for him and grabbed the landline from its port near the fridge. He punched in his father's phone number, mouthing the words to the song he'd made up to help himself remember the number. The line rang... and rang, and rang. Nothing. The automated voice of a woman told him his father was unavailable, but he could leave his name and number after the beep. Roman replaced the phone and wiped his hands on his pants. What was he getting so worked up about? They were only at the grocery store. He was sure they'd be back in a few minutes. Nothing to worry about. 

Roman climbed back up onto the stool and stared at his homework. He was only three questions in with seven more to go, and was stuck trying to figure out how to multiply three-fourths by five-eighths. 

The front door slammed open. 

"Roman?! Roman, where are you?" his father shouted, near hysterical. He rounded the corner before Roman had a chance to reply. His face was pale and covered in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead. 

"Dad, what's going on? Where's Mama?"

His father grabbed his backpack, unzipped it, and dumped all of the contents out onto the floor. He shoved the empty bag at his son. "Take this upstairs and fill it with clothes. Grab anything you don't want to leave behind."

"What? Why? Dad, what—"

"_Just shut up and do it, Roman!" _his father exploded. Roman's mouth snapped shut and he nodded, taking the backpack and sprinting up the stairs to his room. He blinked back tears as he collected a smattering of shirts, pants, socks, and underwear. His father had never yelled at him before. Had he done something wrong? Where was his mother? He could hear his father packing his own things down the hall. Roman made sure to pack his storybook, plastic sword, and dragon plushie Sir Sings-A-Lot. The name originated from an inside joke between him and his mother.

His father opened his door, holding a duffel bag in one hand and his wallet in the other. "Ready?" he said, out of breath. Roman nodded again, slinging the pack over his shoulder. "Good. Get in the truck. We're leaving." Roman wanted to ask where they were going and why they were leaving without Mama, but doubted he would get an answer. A minute later, and they were both piled into his dad's truck and pulling out of the driveway. 

"Dad, you didn't lock the door," Roman said softly. 

His father gripped the steering wheel with both hands and stared straight ahead as they drove down the road away from their house. "We're not coming back, Roman."

"But what about school? I promised Elliot I'd help out with their project tomorrow."

"You're going to a different school now," he said, his knuckles growing white. They pulled out onto Main Street and headed toward the interstate on-ramp. 

Roman grew upset. "But I don't want to go to a new school, all of my friends are here! Why do we have to leave?"

"Roman, now really isn't the time—"

"Why won't you tell me where Mama is? Why can't she come with us? What happened?"

_"She's dead, Roman! Okay?" _his father barked, tears finally slipping down his cheeks. Roman's voice died in his throat. "I watched her die right in front of me and the last thing she said was to grab you and run so that's what we're going to do and if you ask me one more question I swear I'm going to lose it so just be quiet until we get wherever we're going, okay?" he blurted, his voice cracking miserably. 

Roman choked out a whispery, "Okay," and pulled his knees up into his chest. Tears dribbled down his chin and he muffled the strangled noises of crying with his sleeve. Mama was...? How? Why? Who had done it? Why was his father there? But none of that mattered. All of the questions that usually flooded his mind were pushed aside by the overwhelming sadness filling his lungs like water. 

His mother was gone, just like that. 

* * *

Wakeby, Oklahoma.

Age: 13

Roman opened the door to the apartment, his nose crinkling at the sickly sweet odor of alcohol that washed over him. Closing the door behind him, he found his father sitting on the couch watching the television with a half-empty bottle of beer dangling from his fingers. 

"Hey, Dad."

His father grunted a reply, tipping his head back. Roman walked over to the counter, setting his backpack on the stool. A newspaper of job listings covered in angry red X's sat discarded on the floor. He looked back at his father, who had begun flipping absentmindedly through the channels. He'd been struggling to find another job after getting fired from his last one for yelling at a customer. Determined to cheer him up, at least a little bit, Roman rummaged through his backpack and pulled out the drawing he'd made in art class today: a knight in armor fighting off a fire-breathing dragon. It was pretty good, too. He walked around to the front of the couch and placed a hand on his dad's shoulder.

"I made something today in art class. Do you want to see it?"

His father looked up at him, his eyes red and swollen. He stared at his son for a moment before looking at the outstretched piece of paper. He licked his lips and managed a smile. "It's really good, Roman." 

Roman's heart swelled. His dad hadn't smiled for two weeks. Spurred on by the good sign, he continued, "Yeah, I made a new friend today as well. His name is Virgil and he's also in my art class. He's a lot better at drawing than I am. He doesn't talk a lot in class, but he let me look at his sketchbook the other day. I told him he could come sit with me, and Logan, and Patton at lunch, but he said no. I think I'll ask him again tomorrow." 

His father sniffed and set his beer down. "Good for you, Roman."

Hoping to ride out this new good mood, Roman jogged back to his pack, unzipping it. "Speaking of school, there's a field trip tomorrow to the Natural Life Museum. I have a permission slip for you to sign if—"

"The Natural Life Museum?" his father said, picking up his bottle and taking a swallow. "Isn't that over in Windon?"

"Well, yeah, but—"

"Roman, you know you aren't allowed to leave town."

His hope fluttered nervously. "I know, but I'll be with the school group. Lots of teachers will be there, so I thought you'd be okay with it. Windon isn't too far, right?"

"My answer is no."

"What if you chaperoned? Parents are allowed to come as well! Then you would be with me the entire—"

"You're not going, Roman!" His father stood, steadying himself on the arm of the couch. "Don't argue with me on this."

"Fine, whatever," he snapped, stuffed the permission slip back into his pack, and went to his room without another word. Roman didn't get it. His father had never explained it further than, _it's dangerous. _What was that supposed to mean? He understood that what his father witnessed three years ago was traumatizing, but it wasn't as if Roman hadn't _also_ lost someone. He didn't even get to say goodbye. You didn't see _him_ wallowing around in self-pity and micromanaging anyone else's life. He wanted so desperately to go. If he didn't, he'd get stuck in some boring study hall for the entire day. 

A thought came to him. 

Carefully, he took the permission slip back out of his backpack and smoothed it out on his desk. Grabbing a pen, he checked the box next to _Yes, I will allow my child to attend this activity. _

He hesitated for only a second before signing his father's name on the subsequent line. 

* * *

Roman's knee bounced nervously as the bus rolled farther and farther away from Wakeby. He knew his father's convictions about him being in danger weren't real, but still. Something about breaking a rule he'd heeded for three years until this point was exhilarating, if not a bit terrifying. 

"Are you okay?" Virgil asked, glancing at Roman as he wrung his hands. 

"What? Oh, yeah, I'm fine. I've just never left town before."

"You've never left Wakeby? Why? There are only, like, eight hundred people that even live here."

Logan, who was sitting on the bench in front of them, flipped around to face them. "Because his father's paranoid." Patton slapped his shoulder and he recoiled. "What? It's the truth."

"My dad worries a lot," Roman supplemented, "He thinks that something bad might happen to me if I leave town without him. I don't think he's right, but he's still my dad." Virgil swallowed and looked down at his shoes. He did that a lot. Roman had stopped taking offense to it, simply figuring it was Virgil's personality.

Patton turned around as well, kneeling on the seat and resting his chin along the back. "Then how'd you get the teachers to let you on the bus?"

Logan pushed his glasses up his nose, "He obviously forged the signature."

"Let the whole bus know, why don't you?" Roman grumbled. 

"Roman, I'm surprised at you!" Patton gasped, horrified. "You got on the field trip by _lying?"_

He threw his hands up, exasperated. "What was I supposed to do, Patton? Sit in study hall for six hours while all of my friends get to have fun at the museum? Sorry, that isn't exactly my idea of a good time."

"Do _you_ think anything bad will happen to you if you leave?" Virgil asked so softly they almost didn't hear it. 

"What?" Roman laughed, confused. 

Virgil sighed, shifting around in his seat and pulling at the sleeves of his over-sized jacket. "I don't know. Do you think your dad's right?"

"The likely hood of 'something bad' happening on the trip will be relatively low, Virgil. We're traveling in a group with plenty of adult supervision," Logan said. Before any of them could say something more, however, Ms. Hinckle leaned over and told Logan and Patton to sit normally in their seats.

The museum was incredible. According to Virgil, it was just like any other museum, but for the last three years Roman only had access to the meager attractions available in Wakeby: the movie theater, a few diners, and the amphitheater where his junior acting club met on Thursdays. The last time he remembered visiting a museum, his mother had been alive. Determined to enjoy himself, Roman dragged his three friends through every attraction The Natural Life Museum had to offer. Patton particularly enjoyed the butterfly exhibit, and Logan's eyes lit up whenever Roman asked him a question about one of the displays. Even Virgil looked like he was beginning to enjoy himself, though he still remained relatively quiet and reserved.

"All right, Virgil. It's your turn to pick where we go," Patton panted after they'd scaled the four flights of stairs. Roman had casually mentioned that he was faster than Logan, to which Logan replied that, objectively, he wasn't. Thus, the race up the stairs had ensued. Virgil, equally out of breath, pointed at a sign on the wall. The dinosaur exhibit. They wandered the section of the museum for nearly an hour, making sure to take notes on the hand-out Ms. Hinkle had given them on their way off the bus. Roman found endless entertainment in misidentifying each fossil as a mythical creature, completely ignoring Logan's outraged corrections. 

"How does that look anything like a hippogriff? First of all, there's no physical evidence that they ever existed, and secondly—"

"Oh, lighten up and enjoy the reconstructed dead things, Lo," Roman groaned, tugging on his arm. 

"Roman? Has anyone seen Roman?" a familiar voice called through the exhibit. Roman looked up. It was Ms. Hinkle. 

"Hold on, guys," he said, jogging over to the teacher. She looked worried, her phone in her hand. 

"Thank goodness," she sighed, placing a hand on Roman's shoulder. "Your father's looking for you. Apparently, he never signed your permission slip. Care to explain yourself?"

Roman's stomach dropped. "Uh, well, you see... it's a funny story, actually. I—"

"Don't you lie to me, Roman Kingsley," she warned. 

His facade dropped. "I just wanted to come on the field trip and hang out with my friends, but my dad wouldn't sign the paper! I didn't want to sit at school and do nothing all day!"

Ms. Hinkle put her hands on her hips. "Roman, you know that lying is wrong. Same goes for forgery."

"I know."

"Normally, I'd have to call your parents, but seeing as your father already knows, I'll let it slide this time," she sighed. "He's on his way to pick you up. I'll wait with you out by the parking lot, okay? Go tell your friends why you have to leave, then come straight back."

"Yes, ma'am," Roman said sheepishly, walking back to where Logan, Patton, and Virgil all stood, watching. 

"What happened?" Patton asked, nervous.

"They found out I faked the signature. My dad's coming to pick me up in a few minutes. I... I have to go home," he said miserably. "I'll see you guys tomorrow in class." He turned and fled before any of them could say anything. He really didn't want a pity party, and he especially didn't want any of them to see how upset he was. His father had just started cheering up again, and he had to go and do this. His father would never trust him again. 

* * *

Ms. Hinkle kept her word and waited patiently on the front steps of the museum with Roman. She tried to talk to him a few times, but he wasn't really in the mood to talk—a surprise, yes, he realized. He pointed out his father's white pickup as it pulled into the parking lot and waved goodbye to Ms. Hinkle as he made his way over. His father didn't get out of the car. He didn't even look over at Roman as he approached. Roman saw his teacher watching with a concerned expression as they drove off. 

The car was completely silent, except for the soft ticking of the blinker. He couldn't even hear his dad breathing. Roman opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying and failing to think of something to say. The silence was suffocating, like someone was smothering him with a pillow. It reminded him of the drive they'd taken the day his mother died. He hated when his father got quiet like this. It meant he was either depressed, or extremely upset. Roman guessed the latter. 

They pulled into their parking slot in front of their apartment building and his father killed the ignition. 

"Dad, I—" Roman started, but his father shut him up with a look, getting out of the truck and slamming the door behind him. Roman's heart clenched. He was in far more trouble than he'd counted on. Letting out a shaky breath, he undid his seat belt and followed his dad up the stairs. As they ascended, he found himself growing less scared and more angry. Nothing had happened. His father should have no reason to be scared anymore. No reason to keep him confined to this insufferably small town for the rest of his life. His dad opened the door, then motioned for Roman to enter before him. He swallowed, and stepped over the threshold. His father closed the door, and pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing wearily. 

"You're grounded," he said with the soft tremble of someone very near a breaking point. "For three months."

_"Three months?"_

"You will not leave this apartment except to go to school until the end of May, do you understand?"

"No, not exactly," Roman said derisively. "_Nothing happened, _Dad. I don't understand why you're so upset!"

"I told you _explicitly_ not to go, and what did you do? You went! You faked my signature, lied to your teachers, and for what? Huh?! Tell me, what was so important? Your friends? They don't matter!" his father shouted. 

"Shut up! They are the _best_ thing that's happened to me since mom died! You're so paranoid about some boogeyman that _doesn't exist! _You just sit on the couch all day drinking beer and being depressed. Well, I'm sorry I got over mom's death and you didn't, but you can't keep me locked up because _you_ haven't learned how to deal with it!!" he screamed. 

His father's nostrils flared and he back-handed Roman across the face. Roman's head snapped sharply to the side and his ears rang from the force of it. He felt a small spot of fire on his cheek where his father's ring had punctured his skin. He grabbed him painfully tight, pinning his arms to his sides. 

"I'm trying to keep you safe!" he pleaded. His grip tightened and Roman whimpered. "Can't you see that?! Why can't you see that?"

"Dad—"

"You don't know what's out there, Roman. I do. I've seen it. Seen it do terrible things."

"Dad, stop! You're hurting me—"

_"Listen to me!" _ his father bellowed, hysterical. Roman choked back a sob, biting his bottom lip so hard he was worried it, too, might start bleeding. "You will _never_ leave Wakeby again. Am I perfectly clear?"

Roman nodded, not trusting himself to speak without breaking down. His father stared at him for a moment, as if coming to his senses. He reached up and touched the trail of blood streaking down Roman's cheek. 

"I'll get the first aid kit," he muttered. He released Roman and, looking exhausted, shuffled into the bathroom. Roman couldn't stop shaking. He barely withheld the tears that threatened to spill down his face. He stayed quiet as his father returned and cleaned his face up, quiet as his father muttered something about it being an accident, quiet as he finally retreated into his room before, at last, breaking down. 

He would never leave Wakeby again. 

* * *

Wakeby, Oklahoma.

Age: 20

Roman pulled up to the quaint little house and switched off the ignition. He could feel the excitement bubbling up inside him. He'd finally done it. He'd moved out of his father's apartment. Not only that, but he was getting to live with his three best friends. Logan, who had graduated a year before the rest of them, was returning home after getting a bachelor's degree in elementary education, and Roman was nearly out of his mind with excitement to see his friend again. Patton had spent the last two years out of high school working with his mother at her nursing home while going to school online. He was the one who had given Roman the idea to try it out himself. Before that, he'd been convinced he'd work at Mia's bagging groceries for the rest of his life, what with his father breathing down his neck every waking moment. If he kept up with it, at the pace he was going, he'd have his associates before Christmas. 

Virgil... Well, Roman was unsure about him. He said that he didn't have any plans after high school, avoided questions, and never talked about his parents. He'd been absent the entire summer spending time with them. Apparently, they lived farther out in the mountains and and raised rabbits, or something. He'd come back a few days ago and was acting even more reserved than usual. Roman was curious, sure, but understood. He didn't like talking about his parents with other people either. Even his three best friends only knew the bare minimum about why his father was the way he was. They didn't press him for details, and he didn't press Virgil. 

Taking a breath, he got out of the truck, grabbed his bags, and walked up the front steps. He stopped in front of the door and turned back. He could see the edge of Wakeby from here. Maybe one day he'd do it. 

Maybe...

* * *

Interstate 59, just outside Wakeby, Oklahoma.

Age: 20

"Tell me again why we have to go all the way to Tolburn for this?" Roman asked, looking over at Virgil. He sat in the passenger seat, still swimming in his jacket like he had in middle school. 

"He's a good therapist," he said, shrugging. He fiddled with his jacket sleeves and didn't look up. 

"I'm just glad I'm finally getting out of Wakeby, you know?" Roman sighed. No reply. He tipped his head side to side, thinking. "You know, speaking of therapists, do you remember Emile?"

"Picani?"

"Yeah. Apparently, he's a psychology major. Wants to be a therapist! Dr. Emile Picani, how crazy does that sound?... Oh, come _on, _Doctor Gloom, I'm tryna get you out of this funk you've been in ever since the summer," Roman whined, leaning back into the seat as he drove. He glanced over. Virgil was shaking. Roman sobered immediately and sat up, "Hey, hey, what's wrong? Did I say something? Talk to me, Virgil."

He took a shaking breath and looked up at Roman, cheeks stained with tears. "I'm so sorry." 

"What are you—"

Virgil lifted a hand, then slammed it down into his seat. A crack of thunder exploded beneath the truck, sending them flying into the air. Time slowed down and Roman watched, his brain unresponsive and sluggish, as the vehicle flipped. He looked at Virgil. His friend looked regretful and sad, but not concerned about the crash in the least. Roman's brow knit together and he started to say something when the roof of the car hit the asphalt. A burst of hot white pain erupted across his forehead and the world went dark.

* * *

Pain. Before Roman had even opened his eyes, he felt the pain. It was all over, radiating across his head, through his chest, and down his arms. He heard muffled talking, like his head was underwater. Whatever it was he was lying on was cold and damp; he'd be shivering if he weren't so exhausted. Roman opened his eyes, squinting. He was lying on his side, so the scene before him was set off-kilter and blurry. There was some bright source of flickering light a few feet away from him. A fire? Had someone found him and Virgil after the crash? Hopefully that was the case.

Roman licked his lips and blinked a few times, trying to clear his head. He tasted the tang of blood on his tongue and tried to speak, but all that came out was a garbled whimper. The muffled voices stopped, then became clearer as the speaker approached him. 

"...finally up. Let's hope you didn't rattle his skull too hard, kitty. This prince won't do me any good if he can't walk straight." It sounded like a woman, though Roman wasn't too confident in his senses at the moment. He felt a cool hand on his temple. _"Mend the bones and clear the mind, skin and tooth and blood in kind," _she chanted. Painfully uncomfortable sensations ricocheted through his entire body, but all he could manage was a weak groan. It felt akin to stepping into hot water after walking barefoot through the snow. Pins and needles on the brink of unbearable. Eventually, his head cleared and the feeling faded, leaving him feeling a considerably smaller amount of pain than before. He was still sore, but now he could sit up without worrying about being sick with dizziness. Looking around again, he now saw he was in a large cave with stalactites dripping water onto the damp stone floor. A crackling fire sat in a bed of coals, tended to by a morose-looking Virgil who squatted down near it and poked it with a stick. 

"Virgil? What's going on?" Roman asked, but received no reply. Not even an upward glance. Suddenly remembering the woman behind him, he scrambled back. "Who are you? Where am I?"

The woman smirked, a hand on her hip. If he had to guess, she was somewhere in her early sixties, though she appeared as spry as ever. She wore a forest-green velvet dress riddled with pockets and patches. Her graying hair was long and unkempt. She looked like she'd been living away from civilization for quite a while. For a split second, he wondered if this was Virgil's mother, then discarded the thought. They looked nothing alike, and there definitely weren't any rabbits. 

She squatted down in front of Roman. "Have you ever heard of the Dragon Witch, my prince?" Behind him, Virgil snorted. She shot him an angry look, then returned her attention to Roman. "Well?"

"Uh, no, and I'm not _your prince. _Can we leave, now?"

The woman threw her head back and cackled. "This one's funny, Virgil. I think I'm going to like him. Much more entertaining than the last one. _I_ am the Dragon Witch, boy. Don't forget it. Now, give me your hand."

Roman pulled away from her. "Why? I still don't know what's going on. Virgil, please, just—"

"Virgil please, Virgil please," the woman mocked, shooting him a triumphant glance. "Wow, you've really got your hooks in this one, don't you, kitty? Or maybe it's the other way around?"

"Shut up and just start the ritual," Virgil snapped, still staring at the fire. His eyes were red and puffy, like he'd been crying. Roman's head spun. What the heck was going on? Who was this _Dragon Witch_, and what sort of ritual was she supposed to be doing? Why was Virgil here, and why was he completely ignoring him? The woman huffed an aggravated sigh and stepped toward Roman, grabbing him by his wrist and pulling him to his feet. 

"Hey, what are you—Stop!" he demanded, trying to wrench himself free. She was far stronger than she looked. The strange woman dragged him deeper into the cave where the light from Virgil's fire grew more and more distant. When they'd traveled what must have been an adequate distance, she stopped. He could barely see her in front of him. 

"Listen, lady. I don't know what you think you're doing, but I'm not just going to participate in some weird ritual. If my friend and I can just be on our way, we'll be out of your hair for good."

_"Secure the spirit, bind the feet, power drawn from ancients_ _deep." _Her eyes began to glow gold. Roman tried to pull away, but his feet were stuck fast, as if they'd set in concrete. She still gripped his wrist, and her nails began to dig into his skin._ "Strip the powers, rake the soul. Receive the curse and pay the toll. In mine own stead stand you this day, forever this one part to play. Magic from the Witch Queen past, fight until you breathe your last..." _the chanting then devolved into some rasping language that Roman couldn't recognize. He saw her free arm move in the darkness, and gasped as a hot line of fire traced across the length of his palm. Warm sticky blood spilled between his fingers and onto the ground below. Suddenly, runes that he hadn't been able to see before began to beam the same rich gold as the woman's eyes. She released his wrist and stepped out of the circle, bringing the knife to her lips and whispering a final, _"Seal it in blood!"_

Roman's entire body shuddered and he doubled over, collapsing to his knees. It felt as if his blood was flowing backwards and everything inside of him was attacking everything else. It was just... _wrong. _He couldn't put it into words, but basically it was the worst feeling ever. He grabbed fistfuls of his own hair and screamed, wanting to crawl out of his own skin. It was over in the blink of an eye, and yet it had lasted an eternity. Roman was left trembling and shaking on the cave floor as the last of the gold light faded from the runes around him and the woman's eyes.

He vaguely remembered what happened next. The woman led him back to the fire, handed Virgil a letter addressed to Roman sealed with a thumbprint of his own blood, then handed him over. They left. Just like that. As if nothing had happened. Roman, unable to walk on his own, let alone speak, allowed Virgil to guide him down the mountain he didn't remember climbing. Something happened that Roman either couldn't describe, or his mind couldn't register, because one minute they were in the middle of the forest with no civilization in sight, and the next they were making their way through a field toward Roman's truck. It was still flipped over and all the glass was broken. 

"Virgil..." he managed as his friend lowered him to the ground next to the truck. He tucked the letter into Roman's front pocket carefully. 

"Stay there. Just... don't move for a minute," he said and clambered through the window and back into the truck. Roman couldn't tell if what Virgil was doing didn't make sense or if his mind was just muddled. Roman obeyed, though he doubted he could have gotten very far had he decided to run. What had just happened? Virgil, now thoroughly wedged into the truck, reached a hand out to Roman and touched the top of his hand. 

"I'm sorry, Roman. Please forgive me. _Mind and matter bend and break, let what once was never wake._"

Instantly, Roman's mind was crisp and clear like a winter's day before anyone had a chance to mar the snow with footprints. His mind reeled back to the crash. He'd lost control and hit a ditch. Flipped the truck. He'd been the first one awake. Virgil was unresponsive. Desperate, he searched the surrounding area for signs of life. A fire in a cave up the side of the mountain. He'd hiked up, desperate to get some help for his friend. He'd met the Dragon Witch. She ambushed him and the ritual ensued. She gave him a letter, then sent him through some kind of portal with a snap of her fingers, and—

Roman gasped, sitting up. He was back at the scene of the accident. She sent him back! Fear spiking through him, he scrambled to the window of the overturned car. 

"Virgil?! Come on, buddy, wake up. Don't die on me, _please!"_

Virgil, who was nothing but a tangle of limbs wedged in the crumpled cabin, coughed and groaned, shifting around somewhat. Roman nearly burst into tears of relief. He eventually managed to pull Virgil from the wreckage. His phone had remained undamaged and he called 911.

Help was on the way. 


	3. dark though it is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A picnic doesn't go quite according to plan, and Logan gets a crazy idea...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for this chapter comes from "Thanks" by W. S. Merwin.

Logan glared at the mug of coffee before him, his elbows propped on the counter and his fingers laced together. He couldn’t get the image of Roman coming home earlier this morning out of his head. Logan had known for a while—going on two months, five days, seven hours, and forty minutes ago. Roman told him there was nothing he could do; the curse was irreversible according to Ursula's letter. Forget the fact that he was risking his life every single day, because Roman had that stupid amulet that supposedly negated all of his fatigue and injuries once removed, as if that also negated any worry that Logan endured. What would happen if the chain snapped, or it fell off while he was fighting? What then? 

“Is something bothering you, kiddo?” Patton asked, sliding onto the stool next to him. Logan blinked and muttered something about nuclear fission and thermodynamics, something to keep him oblivious. It would break Patton to see what was happening to Roman, Logan was sure of it. He already took care of the three of them; he didn’t need something else to keep him up at night. Patton didn't seem too convinced of the evasion, but didn't push the issue any further. Instead, he pushed a bowl of cereal and a plate of orange slices toward him. 

"Eat up, Logan. Can't be missing out on all that Vitamin Yes."

"What are you talking about?" he said around a mouthful of Cheerios. "Oranges contain Vitamin C, along with minerals like thiamine, folate, potassium, and—wait, was that a pun?"

"Vitamin C is Spanish for Vitamin Yes!" Patton giggled, dancing away from Logan before he could smack him with his spoon. 

"That doesn't even make sense! You can't—"

"Come on, Lo! It was funny!"

"—isn't even spelled the same. C is a letter, not a word! Linguistically, they are completely diff—"

"Virgil! Help!" Patton cried from behind the couch and dissolved into a fit of laughter. Logan looked up, still brandishing his cereal spoon like a weapon. Virgil stood at the base of the stairs looking tired. A hint of a smile graced his face at their antics and he shrugged. 

"Don't look at me."

It wasn't long before Patton surrendered, allowing Logan a victory tap with the spoon, and returned to preparing breakfast. The oven beeped, alerting them all that the chocolate chip muffins were done. Virgil lowered onto a stool next to Logan, resting his chin on his hand.

"Were you out in the living room last night?"

"What?"

"Last night, I heard someone walking around and voices and stuff. I assumed it was you just studying and talking to yourself, but if it wasn't you... it must be a ghost," he said with a grin. 

"A _what?"_ Patton yelped. 

"That's preposterous. Don't listen to him, Patton. Yes, I was up last night, but it's nothing to concern yourselves with."

"Well, I wouldn't say that," Patton said, putting his hands on his hips. "You boys need your sleep. If you two keep this up, I'll have to charge you with _resisting a rest."_

Virgil squinted at Patton, "I don't get—oh, wait. Arrest. But, like, with a space. That's pretty good, Patt."

"I'm getting really tired of this," Logan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. Virgil snorted and Patton beamed.

Logan tensed, pointing a warning finger at Patton who squeaked, "I guess you could say we're... _exhausting?" _

"I swear—" The stairs creaked and they all looked up. Roman rubbed his eyes and yawned as he descended the last few steps, his hair wet and noticeably _not_ matted down with demon blood. He opened his eyes and froze, smiling nervously. 

"Why are you all staring? I mean, I know I'm handsome and all that, but really, control yourselves."

Patton smiled, arranging another plate of oranges. "Good morning, Roman. How did you sleep?"

"Well, thank you—Ooh! Chocolate chip muffins?"

"They're still hot! Hands off!"

Virgil sniffed and pulled the sleeves of his jacket halfway over his hands. "Speaking of hot, did you enjoy taking all of the hot water this morning?"

Logan stiffened and glanced at Roman, but he just scoffed, "It isn't my fault it takes time to look this good, Virgil."

"I just don't understand why you have to shower for an entire hour. Our water bill's going to be through the roof."

Logan's brows knit together, "It's a piece of paper, Virgil. How would it be through the roof?"

"Play nice, guys," Patton said, pulling the oven mitt off his hand and sticking a toothpick down the center of one of the muffins. It came out clean.

"So, Logan gets to lecture me about wasting electricity and leaving the lights on, but when Princey over here takes his sweet time—" Virgil ranted, stopping short when Roman's spoon clattered out of his hand and back into his bowl. Virgil paled, a mortified look on his face. Logan looked between them, racking his brain for a quick solution. Virgil might not know the reasons behind Roman's reaction, but he would definitely recognize it for what it was; he was the most anxious of them all. Truth be told, Logan didn't know what had set Roman off either, but if he didn't change the subject soon, they might start asking questions neither of them were prepared to answer. 

"Er, _Patton!"_ he blurted, "How would you like to have a picnic for lunch today?" If anything would distract him, it was a picnic. Summer was almost over, and he'd been begging the rest of them to do one before it got too cold. 

Patton gasped, "Really?"

Logan shot a meaningful look Roman's way. "Of course. I don't start teaching for another few weeks and Virgil, you're working a grave again tonight, aren't you? I think we could all use a nice relaxing picnic, don't you think? Guys?"

Patton began removing muffins from the metal tin. "We could have sandwiches, and I could cut up some watermelon! I'll have to go shopping later and pick some up. I think I saw some at Mia's for a dollar-fifty," he rambled. 

"That sounds nice," Roman said, another spoonful of cereal hovering indecisively between the bowl and his mouth. Virgil opened his mouth, then closed it, biting his bottom lip and pushing away from the counter. Patton turned around with a plate of fresh muffins. His look of content devolved into confusion as Virgil slunk back up the stairs. A bit of an overreaction in Logan's opinion, he didn't think any of them had seemed angry at him, but he wasn't the best at predicting Virgil's reactions. 

"What happened?" Patton asked, setting the plate of muffins down. Roman grabbed three, apparently relocating his appetite.

"Nothing," Logan assured him, "I'm sure he'll be fine."

"These are amazing, Padre," Roman said, his voice muffled by the sweet cake.

Patton smiled softly, his eyes fixed on the empty stool where Virgil once sat. "I think I'm going to have a little chat with Virge." He took a single muffin from the plate and excused himself. Logan watched him go, then turned his eyes on Roman, who was stuffing the third muffin into his mouth. 

"Care to explain what happened a minute ago?" he asked, standing and carrying his now empty cereal bowl to the sink—well, empty except for the milk. Logan hated drinking cereal milk from a bowl. 

"Not really," Roman said, opening the fridge and looking through the contents. He swallowed and cleared his throat. "Sweet cheese and crackers, I'm starving. Are these your leftovers? Can I have them?"

"If you tell me what Virgil said to upset you."

"Fine, I guess I'll find something else, then," he said, the playful edge to his voice sharpening. He grabbed the carton of milk and poured himself a glass. Logan watched as he looked through the pantry in tense silence, eventually settling on the jar of peanut butter and a spoon. Not the healthiest breakfast, but Logan wasn't about to call him out on it. Roman sat down on the couch, furiously eating his peanut butter. Logan leaned against the counter, unsure what to do. Patton would know. Of course he would, he always did. Oh, how Logan wished he could tell him what was going on, but he knew as well as Roman that it would tear him up inside. 

* * *

"All right, is everyone ready to go?" Roman asked, basket full of lunch fixings hanging off the crook of his arm. Patton beamed and Logan looked around, nodding as he made a silent double-check. Virgil avoided his eye, playing with the strings on his jacket. Roman felt bad. He hadn't meant to react so visibly, but when Virgil had called him Princey, his mind had immediately flooded with images of a giant demon serpent. He knew he sang, loved Disney, and could even be grandiose at times—it was kind of his thing. Many people had compared him to a prince in the past, so Virgil making the connection wasn't exactly suspicious. Now, however, the word had turned sour from fear. Terror had dyed it an ugly color, and he couldn't get it out. He certainly didn't blame Virgil for what happened, but was at a loss for what to say without inviting more questions about it.

"Looks like it! Let's go!" Patton said happily, marching into the garage and clambering into the truck. Logan grabbed a thick blanket for them to sit on. Roman followed Patton with a smile, sliding into the driver's seat as the other two piled into the back. 

The drive was nice. Patton played songs from his favorite playlist, made jokes so bad they were hilarious, and gave Roman gentle directions on when and where to turn. Apparently, he knew of a spacious meadow just _perfect_ for a picnic. Wakeby wasn't very large, so he was interested to find out where it was. Near the forest, no doubt. Roman attempted to swallow the lump forming in his throat. The last thing he wanted to do during the day was spend time looking at the forest. It surrounded Wakeby on all sides, parting only slightly to allow the interstate to pass through town. Roman had tried entering the forest in different places to try and avoid running into the demon, however, the longer it took him to get into the trees, the more painful the curse became. Eventually, he'd settled for entering in the same place and just dealing with whatever the snake had up its sleeve. Not that snakes had sleeves, but you get the point. 

Pulling off the road onto a patch of gravel, Roman put the truck in park and pulled out the key. 

"You weren't kidding, Pat," Virgil said, gazing out the window. He was right, the meadow was gorgeous, hidden behind the movie theater. Roman couldn't have said if he'd been there before or not. Wakeby looked different with the sun shining. Nearly bouncing with excitement, Patton hopped out of the truck with the basket on his arm. They eventually found a place to set up. Roman found himself experiencing a silent, internal dilemma as he tried to decide whether he wanted to sit facing the forest, or with his back to it. If he turned his back to it, he'd be paranoid the entire time about not being able to watch for danger, and yet, if he faced it, he wouldn't be able to stop glancing over, watching for the glint of golden scales. Come to think of it, Roman had never seen the serpent during the day. This was mostly due to the fact that he avoided the forest like the plague during the only time he had away from it. It was curious, though, what the demon did with the rest of its day. Surely, Roman wasn't the only person to ever enter the forest in Wakeby, right? If so, how come no one had noticed the enormous snake squatting there? Could it leave the forest? Did it stay that big, or just turn into a normal snake?

_Hopefully, I'll never have to find out, _Roman thought, finally deciding to sit facing the trees. Patton handed out the sandwiches and watermelon, and Roman _enjoyed _himself. Truly, and thoroughly enjoyed the time he got to spend with his roommates. Strange, how not knowing if you'll come home alive every night changes a person's perspective on what's important. He'd easily give up any chance at a college education if it meant getting to see all of his friends achieve their goals before... you know. He died. So, wanting to make the absolute most of however much time he _did_ have left, Roman proposed a game of frisbee. Logan and Virgil politely declined, but Patton whole-heartedly agreed, running to the truck and retrieving the plastic disk from under the back seats.

* * *

Logan watched Roman and Patton throw the frisbee back and forth, the faintest of smiles on his face. Patton made up increasingly ridiculous names for the "special throws" he performed, and Roman was laughing so hard he couldn't catch the frisbee—which only made him laugh harder. Virgil seemed the only one in a dour mood.

"Virgil?"

"Hm?" he looked up from picking at the leftover crusts of his sandwich. 

"I...I'm sorry, if you felt attacked at breakfast. That was not my intention," Logan said, placing his hands in his lap awkwardly. He wasn't the best at apologies. 

Virgil shrugged, giving a half-smile. "Nah, it's okay. I just... felt bad, you know? I don't really like dealing with conflict, and I know it's a bad habit and all that, but it just makes me really nervous. Nothing against you or Patton."

Logan sat up. "Do you have any idea why Roman reacted the way he did?" He doubted it, as Virgil didn't know about Roman's escapades as of yet, but there was a slight possibility it was having to do with something else.

Virgil stiffened. "Uh, no. I—I don't." He went back to picking at his bread. Roman had mentioned something about Virgil acting different since the summer, and at first Logan had written it off as nothing, just Virgil being Virgil. He was always like this after visiting his parents—an uncommon occurrence, for sure, but each summer since they'd all met, Virgil had stolen away into the wilderness to spend time with them regardless of how it affected him when he returned. But this "funk", as Roman put it, was going on a little longer than normal. 

Logan went quiet for a moment, thinking. After a moment, he pulled out the book he'd brought along with him and said, "Would you like me to read aloud for a bit?" He knew that Virgil found the activity calming, and hoped it would help somewhat

His eyes lightened and he looked up. "What book is it?"

_"Rhetoric and Logic._ It's actually quite interesting."

Virgil snorted and reclined onto his back, lacing his hands behind his head. "All right, then."

Logan read to him. It was something he wouldn't have done given usual circumstances. Most people didn't care about the things that Logan found interesting. Virgil, on the other hand, found it calming and would ask him to read aloud whenever he was feeling anxious. Logan had read the book before many times, and found his mind wandering as he read. He could still hear Roman and Patton's game going on in the background. It made him glad to see Roman enjoying what free time he was allowed. Logan had been researching everything he could find on demons, curses, and dragon witches. So far, all he'd found were children's stories and folktales. There were many myths and legends about serpents and demons that took their shape, but from the details Roman had given him about it, there was nothing written about his specific opponent. The closest things Logan had found to Roman's curse were punishments mortals received after death.

If anyone was living hell, it was Roman.

They went on like this for nearly half and hour before Roman and Patton grew tired and returned to the blanket. Logan put his book away, and they all talked about anything and everything. Logan would be lying if he said he didn't notice Roman glancing over at the tree line every few minutes, but it would also be false to ignore the lack of tension in his shoulders, the ease with which he smiled, and the genuine laughter bubbling out of his throat. Even Virgil had relaxed and inserted himself into the conversation more. 

Eventually, they cleaned up lunch, and all lay back on the blanket watching the sky.

"So, is college just like how it is in the movies?" Roman asked. "You're the only one of us who's actually gone to school on a campus."

"What do you mean?" Logan looked over at him. 

"You know, frat boys, and sorority girls, and parties, and stuff," he said, gesturing vaguely with his hands. 

Logan looked back up at the partly cloudy sky. "Yes, they exist, if that's what you're asking." He paused. "I even attended one of those so called 'frat parties'."

Virgil choked. "You _what?"_

Roman sat up, a mischievous grin on his face. "I can't believe it. Logan was a frat boy."

Logan reddened, "I was _not_ one of them, you heathens. My attendance was a singular, accidental event."

"Sure, Lo," Patton muttered, hiding his laughter behind his hand. 

"You all are blowing this way out of proportion, it wasn't—"

"Did you drink anything? Wait, did you get _drunk? _Oh, I would pay money to see you drunk, teach," Roman laughed. 

"Of course not, I only had... a _few_ drinks. I think," Logan trailed off, a look of genuine concern crossing his face. 

Roman gasped. "Oh my heck, you got wasted, didn't you?"

"Guys..." Virgil muttered.

Logan propped himself up on his elbow. "I didn't pass out or anything, if that's what your insinuating."

"Just got a bit absinthe-minded?" Patton offered, and Logan ran a hand down his face and flopped back onto his back. 

"Guys," Virgil repeated, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. 

Roman glanced over, "Oh, come on Surly Temple, it wasn't _that _bad of a pun, even for you."

"No, my head..." Virgil managed, grabbing his head and curling in on himself. The group sobered. No pun intended. Logan met their eyes, and they both nodded. Another migraine. Virgil suffered from what Logan had called _thunderclap headaches. _They came on suddenly, at times without warning, and lasted about five minutes. They were extremely painful, from what Virgil had told them. As quietly as possible, Roman and Patton gathered up the blanket and picnic basket while Logan helped Virgil to his feet and across the meadow to Roman's truck. Patton shot Roman a concerned look, and he tried to give him a comforting smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. He was sad to have to cut their outing short, but he wouldn't dream of furthering Virgil's pain. 

The drive home was silent, but not in a bad way. Virgil sat hunched over in the passenger seat, and Patton extended his seat belt as far as it would go and rubbed his back from the backseat. Roman drove as smoothly as he possibly could, and was just glad, for once, he wasn't the one having to be taken care of.

* * *

Three hours later.

"I'm just going to take a walk, I'll be back in a bit," Virgil called, already out the door. Stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets, he hurried down the street toward the far edge of town. Once the houses and establishments had thinned, he ducked behind a fence, checked once more for any onlookers, then crouched down and muttered a quick phrase under his breath. His entire body thrummed with magic as he felt the familiar feeling of returning to his true form. Unlike most of the shows he watched on the others' television device, consistency with clothing wasn't a problem he faced. It simply shifted with him. He couldn't imagine having to constantly worry about leaving piles of empty clothes lying around, or shifting back completely naked. He shivered, the hair along the back of his spine prickling. Approaching a small puddle on the ground, he looked down.

Pointy ears? Check. Two eyes? Check. Whiskers still impeccably groomed? Check. The perfect image of a black cat. But of course, why wouldn't he be? He _was_ a cat, originally, that is—though Ursula's magic had changed him from a normal feline into his current magical self who-knows-how-many years ago.

Being a familiar wasn't all that hard. Being a familiar who was defying their witch? That proved an entirely different matter. 

Logan had attempted to diagnose the sudden, debilitating headaches he suffered without any warning with some human explanation. In reality, it was simply what happened when he resisted Ursula's connection to him. His decision to quit being her spy on Roman had been going on for about ten months now, not too long after Roman had been cursed. Needless to say, she wasn't too happy about it. Despite his resolve, every once in a while, she attempted to see through his eyes as she had used to. Defying someone as powerful as her was considered brave by few, and stupid by most.

Attempting to shake the thoughts from his head, Virgil leaped up onto the top of the fence and darted down it. After what had happened at the picnic, he'd become paranoid about the state of the protective "anti-Ursula" border he'd created around Wakeby and hadn't been able to sit still until he'd checked the runes. Ursula had destroyed them the first few times, but Virgil had proved persistent in his efforts to keep his friend safe, and she'd given up for the most part in her battle with him. She had what she needed. 

Roman. His friend. His friend that he'd betrayed and then been too much of a coward to face the consequences. Roman, who hadn't done anything to deserve what he'd received simply because he existed. It wasn't his fault that his thrice great-grandmother had been the Witch Queen; the Chosen One. He hadn't asked for this. Neither had his mother before him. Virgil's stomach twisted at the thought of Roman ending up just like his mother, and yet there wasn't much he could do about it. 

No. That was a lie. There wasn't much he was brave enough to do. Because he was a pathetic coward who would rather let his friend risk his life every single night than stand up to his witch. His mind dragged him back to that morning. He couldn't believe he'd actually given Roman a hard time about the shower. The truth was, Roman was an actor. An amazing one. So good, in fact, that Virgil often forgot about the curse. About being an imposter. When he was home, he was just a normal guy hanging out with his friends. Nothing more—or so he'd managed to convince himself. 

He arrived at the dilapidated gas station at the far east corner of Wakeby, slinking around the back and swiftly locating the rune he'd carved into one of the white painted bricks. It looked largely untouched. Virgil quickly moved on, trotting down the side of the highway toward the next way point, mind rife with conflict and pain.

* * *

Later that night.

"Logan, I thought we'd already been over this," Roman sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"I will not be going to bed without knowing you are safe, Roman. Arguing with me on the matter is futile," Logan replied, folding his arms. 

He looked up at his roommate, exasperated but internally thankful. It was nice to know that someone cared if he came home each night or not. He shifted the sword in his grip and stepped toward the door. "All right, but you're going to bed as soon as I get back. Deal?"

"Satisfactory. Oh, and Roman?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I may have a way to locate a possible solution to your curse."

Roman froze with his hand on the door handle, his brain still trying to register what he said. "Don't say things like that," he breathed. His voice was soft, and scared to hope. "Don't promise me the impossible." He felt a hand on his armored shoulder. 

"At least hear me out?"

The curse tugged at his insides, but he didn't move. He turned. "Fine."

Logan smiled. "Have you tried reasoning with this demon?"

Roman's throat constricted. _"Reasoning with it? _It's been trying to kill me every night for the last twelve months. How do you propose I reason with something like that?" he snapped. He didn't have time for this. 

Logan didn't seem fazed in the slightest. "It can speak, yes?"

"Yeah, but I don't—"

"Does it have a name?"

Roman threw his hands into the air, "I mean, probably. I haven't really had time to ask it since it's been _trying to kill me. _Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go try not to die for the next six hours."

Roman turned back to the door and turned the handle. Logan grabbed his shoulder and flipped him around, pushing him back into the door. "Roman, you need to begin thinking objectively, and listen to me. I'm trying to save your life. Trust me on this."

"It can't be reasoned with. It's a monster."

"Have you considered the possibility that it's just as cursed as you are?" Logan spat, and Roman fell silent. "That's what I'm saying. Yes, you two have your differences, I can't even begin to imagine, but you can't go on like this, Roman. You can't. You'll die."

Roman swallowed. "We all die, Logan."

"Don't quote facts at me, Roman Kingsley," he said shakily. Roman thought he could see tears pricking in his eyes, but couldn't have been sure. "Just promise me that you'll try. Please. If it doesn't work, I'll abandon the theory, but there's only one way to find out if it will work or not."

"Okay," Roman relented, though it drove a spike of fear straight through his heart. He'd be making himself vulnerable _on purpose_ in front of a beast who wanted nothing more than his blood on its tongue. 

"Good luck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case the timeline is getting a little confusing: Roman was cursed at 20. In the present timeline, he has had the curse for a year, and therefore is 21 (along with Patton). Logan is a year older, at 22. Virgil... well, you'll just have to wait and see, won't you? ;)


	4. on this earth who was once a star and made the same mistakes as humans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman makes a gamble and Virgil makes a terrifying discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: panic attacks, hopelessness, suicidal thoughts, pain, and some graphic imagery.
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from "A Map to the New World" by Joy Harjo.

_This is completely insane, _Roman thought begrudgingly as he slipped between two fences separating backyards. He knew Logan meant well, he really did, but Logan hadn't fought this thing. He'd never even _seen _it. How could he ask Roman to risk death for a theory he already knew wouldn't work?

A thought in the back of his mind quipped, _If you're so sure it won't work, why are you following through with it? _

_Shut up,_ he thought back, stretching his sleeves over his hands and shivering. It was the tail end of summer, and the nights were growing chilly. He looked up at the night sky. He couldn't see a single star; the moon was nothing more than a circular patch of light-tinted clouds. Rain clouds as dark as his mood hung low with the weight of the water they carried, blocking out all hope of light and threatening to spill forth their contents. Of course, Roman hadn't thought to bring a jacket. It had rained earlier that evening, and it mostly likely would again. If it _did_ rain while he was out there, hypothermia would kill him far before the serpent got a chance. The wind whipped past him, drawing the heat from his skin and causing a swath of goosebumps to rise on his arms. He cursed under his breath and folded his arms tight against his chest, tucking his chin into the neck of his shirt and plowing on. 

Roman stopped. 

He was being watched. He just knew. After being hunted for as long as he had, he'd gotten pretty good at noticing and identifying the strange feeling. Sure, he wasn't even halfway to the forest border yet, and the curse prevented the demon from crossing over into Wakeby proper, but Roman was still on edge. Whatever was stalking him was definitely good at it. It hadn't made a noise thus far. Roman's instincts had been hewn down and reshaped into the mindset of prey, always on alert and never trusting the silence. He turned, thanking his lucky star that the streetlights bled far enough in his direction to offer what meager light they could.

His heart crawled up into his throat. 

Two silver disks reflected back out at him from the inky darkness. They were small, but fairly high up—far taller than himself. He couldn't make out a body, only the two, unblinking, pupil-less eyes. Roman drew his sword and held it out in front of him, taking a few steps backs in an attempt to draw it out into the light. 

"Show yourself," he said, wishing he didn't sound as terrified as he did. No reply. Not even a sound. The eyes turned diagonal, as if the creature were cocking its head to the side. They disappeared for a second; a blink. Suddenly, they dropped to the ground and bobbed toward him. Confused and terrified, Roman watched as slowly, out of the darkness emerged...

A cat. 

Roman let out an explosive exhale, placing a hand on his heart and squatting down. "You scared me, buddy." The cat just watched him with its bright amber eyes. It's fur was as pitch black as the shadows clinging to the walls of the houses. Looking down the alley, Roman realized the cat had been following him along the top of the fence. That's why it's eyes had appeared so high up. He held out a hand. The cat looked at it, but didn't make a move to sniff it. It looked back up at him. Roman ran a hand down his face and laughed tiredly. 

"You're going to get caught in the rain, kitty."

It made a soft noise in the back of its throat and blinked. Sighing, Roman stood, sheathed his sword, and shoved his hands in his pockets. "See you later, little guy," he muttered, then continued down the street. He'd only traveled a few steps, however, and the feeling of being watched didn't dissipate. Turning, he saw the cat trailing a few feet behind him, paws padding silently down the sidewalk.

He shook his head and smiled, "You can't follow where I'm going, kitty. Run along." 

If a cat could have rolled its eyes, this one did. It stopped near his ankles, looking up at him, then down the street expectantly. At last acquiescing, Roman continued walking with the cat at his side. He had to admit, it felt good to have some company, especially the kind that didn't ask questions like _why are you sneaking around a night with weapons? _The feline followed him the entire way, somewhat settling the nerves churning within him. They stepped off the side of the road and into the tall, yellow grass that proceeded the tree line. It was still damp from the rain earlier that evening. Roman picked up the cat, holding it to his chest. 

"You don't want to get soaking wet, do you?" he said, trudging through the meadow. Soon, his pants were soaked up to his knees. The cat purred loudly. Roman found the warm vibrations against his chest quite calming—like lying under a weighted blanket. He stopped just before the forest, staring up at the treetops. He could barely see them in the darkness. 

He let out a shaky breath. "Are you afraid of dying?" he asked. The purring stopped. He laughed sadly. "I am. Absolutely terrified of it. You'd think after risking it for as long as I have, I'd be used to it. You have nine lives, right?" He looked down at the cat expectantly. "Can I have some?" Roman laughed wetly at his attempt at a joke. It was a bad idea; the chuckles devolved into tears. 

"I'm going to die," he whispered. 

The cat was impossibly still, the only sign of life being the soft rise and fall of its chest beneath Roman's hand. His trembling hand. Oh, how he wished there was someone to hold it. To smile at him reassuringly and walk with him into the darkness. Roman stood there, chest rattling in the preamble to a nervous breakdown. He sank to his knees and released the cat, worried if he held onto it any tighter, he might end up hurting it. Mud soaked through the knees of his jeans and he stuffed the side of his fist into his mouth to keep from sobbing. It was pathetic, the shudders that wracked his body as he silently wept, bending over his knees and pressing his forehead into the earth. He took deep gulping breathes, like all the oxygen in the air had disappeared. The curse wreaked havoc within him, furious at his reluctance to fulfill his obligations. Roman relished the pain, finding solace in the blinding, burning clarity it brought his mind. A strangled, choking sound crawled up and out of his throat.

He felt the velvety soft touch of a nose across the backs of his hands, which were currently tangled in and tearing at his hair. The cat began to purr again, coming around and pressing the top of its head against his ear. Roman relaxed, letting the calm rumbling overpower everything else whirling through his mind. It took a few minutes, but he eventually calmed down, his breathing becoming slow and tired. He was exhausted. He felt like he'd already fought the stupid snake for a few hours, and he hadn't even started yet. He sat up, pushing his hair back and out of his face. His face was red and puffy from crying, but he didn't really care. Roman wiped his face and smiled. 

"Thanks, buddy."

The cat blinked, then darted off back toward civilization. Roman watched the dark shape streak through the grass for a moment before it disappeared around the corner of a house. He took another deep breath, then stood up and stepped into the forest. 

* * *

Roman's sword remained in its sheath as he trudged through the forest. He didn't bother being quiet, and barely paid attention to his surroundings. He didn't hear anything, but he felt the demon's eyes on him. He didn't care. Perhaps, it was so confused by his odd behavior it assumed he had some sort of trap he was baiting it into. Roman didn't, but was slightly glad that it thought he did. His feet carried him where he wanted to go while his mind, still numb from what had happened outside the forest, wandered through the blurry static that filled his head like cotton. This was his last resort, he decided. If Logan's idea didn't work, he wouldn't fight back. He couldn't do it anymore. Let the demon do what it wanted with him. 

He reached the clearing after some number of minutes he couldn't have specified. The space was wide and open, almost a perfect circle among the trees. The grass here was pale green, as if it were the beginning of spring. Small white flowers peppered the meadow, swaying gently in a sweet breeze that teased the coming rain. _A nice place to die,_ Roman thought. He couldn't decide whether he was being sarcastic or not. He found he didn't care either way. 

He reached the middle of the clearing, slipped his sheathed sword off of its place on his belt and threw it to the ground. Next came the side holsters with his guns, followed by his dagger and all of his armor. Roman looked at them in the grass for a moment before kicking them a good distance away, out of arms reach. 

He took a cross-legged seat, and waited.

And waited. 

Several dozen minutes passed without so much as a slither from the surrounding trees. Roman began picking at the grass, braiding it into a crown and interweaving the wildflowers near his feet. It was somewhat nice, just getting to sit and enjoy the night air for once. A cold spot of water plopped on the top of his head, and he paused in his crown-making. He looked up at the sky. It was too dark to make any judgments about how hard it would rain. He'd dealt with the curse during winter before. Sure, snakes were cold-blooded and usually hibernated during cold months, but Roman wasn't exactly fighting a normal snake. No doubt it had some sort of magic keeping it warm through the rain and snow. All snow was good for was making things harder for Roman. Slipping in the middle of a fight with a demon wasn't exactly a good thing. 

The rain began as a mist, then a sprinkle, eventually evening out into a light downpour. Enough to keep him wet, but nothing he would consider a storm—yet, at least. He wasn't shivering at the moment, but his fingers were beginning to numb with cold, making his project harder to complete.

He noticed a small plant a few paces to his right. Silkweed. _How ironic,_ he thought, leaning over and plucking the plant. He'd discovered several months ago, quite by accident, that chewing the leaves counteracted the demon-snake's venom. He hadn't been bitten, only lightly grazed. Roman wasn't entirely sure, even now, how he'd singled out the silvery plant. He'd just sort of... _known. _He turned the leaves over in his fingers. If he placed one under his tongue, he'd have a chance at saving himself. 

Roman tossed the plant into the dirt.

The sound of something heavy moving across the ground caught his ear and he looked up. _Finally, _he thought, setting his flower crown down. At the edge of the clearing, the serpent glided through the grass toward him, moving as slow as a cat stalking a mouse. Closer and closer it came. Roman's hands trembled, but he didn't move. He didn't grab his weapons. The rain intensified. Roman knew he should say something, and fast, before the thing decided to take advantage of his apparent idiocy and strike. His mouth didn't want to move. What was he _doing? _Sure, this was a last resort, but he actually had to make the effort first before giving up. Right? The demon was only a few dozen feet away now. What would Logan think, if he knew that Roman was throwing away the only possible solution he'd been able to come up with? What would Patton and Virgil do when they found out? How would they react when they found out that their friend was dead? The snake made a slow, circle around him, blocking all possible exits with its long, muscular body. Roman was left with a circle barely ten feet in diameter. His weapons were now pinned beneath a massive serpent.

It reared back its head.

* * *

Virgil streaked through the neighborhood at top speed. Roman was going to let it kill him. He was going to give up just like that. _Roman was going to die. _Virgil had to do _something, _but what could he do? What chance did he have against a two-ton snake-demon whose magical prowess was far and above anything Virgil could ever dream of achieving? Close to none, that's what. He had, however, kept something set aside for emergencies. If anything, _this_ counted as an emergency.

A wave of pain erupted behind his eyes, and he tripped, tumbling ears over tail down the sidewalk. 

_What's wrong, Virgil? You seem stressed, _Ursula's voice crooned inside his mind.

_Shut up,_ he thought back venomously, struggling to his feet. He swayed, stumbling down the street like he was high on catnip.

_I hear it's getting cold in Wakeby. What a shame. You should join me in Bermuda, the weather's stunning. _

She pressed harder, and Virgil gasped. The pain was blinding. She was half a world away, sure, but the connection between a witch and her familiar is purely magical. It transcends any physical distance.

She sighed, _How's my prince doing? I know we've had our differences lately, but _really. _I'm only looking out for his well being. I want him alive and well just as much as you do._

** _I said shut up._ **

_Ooh, your core's showing Virgil. Haven't see that in a few decades..._

Virgil decided to ignore her and just focus on walking in a straight line. She continued taunting him all the way home, sending wave after wave of debilitating pain through his skull. Eventually, he dragged himself up the driveway and around the side of the house. 

Arriving at their house, he pelted into the backyard, tripping over his own feet as he hastily transformed back into his human form. Hopefully, it was dark enough that no one had seen it happen. He could see some lights on inside. Logan was studying, probably. It was a miracle that Roman had managed to sneak in and out of the house every night without anyone else finding out. A sad miracle.

Virgil dropped to his knees near the base of a pine tree in the far corner of the backyard and dug into the dirt, flinging it out of the way with the desperation of someone trying to save their friend. Only a foot or so below the topsoil his now raw fingertips brushed something hard and smooth. His heart in his throat, Virgil dug around the sides and extracted it. 

It was a tiny metal container about the size of an old woman's jewelry box.

With trembling hands, he undid the latch.

* * *

_"What are you doing, little prince?"_ the serpent inquired.

Roman blinked, surprised. Its voice sounded different. It wasn't the harsh, grating sound it usually was whenever they were fighting—though there typically wasn't much conversation during their nightly battles aside from cursing. It was smooth and soft and... almost human sounding. He looked at the serpent for a long moment before finally asking, "Do you have a name?"

_"What?"_

"A name. You have one, right?" 

_"...Yes."_

"Are you going to tell me?"

The demon shifted in the grass. Everything inside Roman screamed at him to run. _"__Of course not. Do you know what someone could do with—"_

"Roman Nicholas Kingsley. That's my legal name, anyway. Not sure if it counts as a 'true name' or anything, but I'm giving it to you, whatever its worth."

_"You mortals are all such idiots," _the demon growled. _"Why?"_

Roman swallowed. "Let's make a deal."

The snake, somehow, made an exasperated noise, _"All right, little prince, but only because this is the first interesting thing that's happened to me in a long time."_ It lowered it's head so close to Roman, he could feel the air puffing out of its nostrils. His heart fluttered with bridled panic. A pure-black forked tongue shot out and wagged in front of Roman's face for a split second before retreating back inside the demon's maw. 

"Tell me how to break this curse," Roman said carefully, fully aware of the foot-and-a-half long fangs that could impale him at any moment.

The demon was silent for a moment. _"And w__hat will I get in return for this information?" _

"Whatever you want. I don't care."

_"You don't know what you're agreeing to, little prince." _The circle constricted, the creature's cold, smooth scales gliding across Roman's back. _"I could have you live in solitude for the rest of your days. I could make you murder your friends and drink their blood. I could curse all of your children to hate you from the moment they were born. Are you prepared to make such a deal?"_

Roman paled. He hadn't thought about it like that. Regardless, he wasn't in the best of positions to refuse the deal, now. The demon had him exactly where he wanted him, and could probably kill him in less time than it took to blink. Was he willing to risk living a life worse than death for the possibility of it maybe working out in his favor? The odds were... astronomical. But it was the only other option. Suddenly finding himself staring down the very real possibility of death, he didn't crave it as much as he'd thought. He wanted to stay, to see his friends fulfill their hopes and dreams, to find someone who loved him and have a family, to _live._

He wanted to live.

_"Decide quickly, little prince, before I lose my patience."_

"I am," Roman blurted, glancing nervously at the demon's body, which was close to becoming uncomfortably tight around him. "I'm prepared to make the deal."

* * *

_Deary me, you seem quite upset, kitty, _Ursula commented inside his mind. Virgil's heart might as well have frozen solid. He knelt motionless at the base of the tree, staring blankly at the empty metal box in his hands.

_This can't be happening,_ he thought hopelessly. He felt Ursula's playful demeanor intensify. 

_What have you found, kitty?_

He didn't respond. He couldn't wrap his mind around what he was seeing. Or rather, what he _wasn't _seeing. Had someone stolen it? But who? Ursula was halfway across the world right now, and there were protective runes around Wakeby. Even if she had managed to break through, she couldn't have gotten in without alerting Virgil first. No one else knew about the box... right? But Ursula sounded so confident and smug. She had to have something to do with it. 

_Where is it?_

He could practically feel her mischievous grin through their mental connection. _I'm sure I don't know what you—_

**_"Where is it? What have you done with it?! GIVE IT BACK!!!"_ **he wailed both aloud and in his mind. His voice was deep with overtones of something not quite human. Like Ursula had said, his core was showing. In that same second, a stab of icy hot agony tore through his mind, catching him completely off guard. He didn't stand a chance. Ursula entered and Virgil was immediately shoved to the back corner of his mind, unable to do much of anything aside from ram himself against the insurmountable mental barriers keeping him at bay. It was no use. He could feel his body immediately take on a different posture, its shoulders relaxing and its head cocking to the side curiously as it stared down at the empty box in its hands. 

"Well, would you look at that," Ursula commented with Virgil's mouth, quirking it up into a smirk. "It seems you've got some hunting to do, kitty." 


	5. or did I snag you on my sharper edges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patton just wants to help, and Virgil searches for a thief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: some negative thinking and graphic(ish) imagery
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from "Secrets" by Lola Ridge.

The rain came down in torrents, drenching everything in sight—including Roman. The serpent was silent, deliberating his words. Roman fidgeted in the snake's hold, simply wanting the ordeal to be over. He paused. What _was_ going to happen once the deal was made? They'd sit a talk for the rest of the night? What about after that? Simply being told how to break the curse didn't mean he'd have any way readily available to do it. How long would it take? Would he still have to fight the demon every night until he figured it out?

Roman began to shiver with cold. The slick, metal-like scales wrapping around him weren't helping either. The demon didn't radiate any heat, in fact, it seemed to be seeping what little warmth Roman's body had been clinging to with every passing second. 

_"Very well," _it hissed, releasing him. Roman collapsed to his knees from both relief and exhaustion, mud and water soaking through his clothes. Being terrified took a lot out of a person, he found. Looking up, he pushed his wet hair up and out of his eyes, watching as the serpent coiled in on itself, forming a tight ball. A hair-raising crack split the air, and for a moment Roman thought lightning had struck, but there was no flash of light.

The snake was gone.

Roman blinked a few times, wondering if the darkness was simply playing tricks on his eyes. He thought he saw... 

"Haven't been in _this_ body for... at least a few centuries. How do you all stand it? So restrictive," a new voice tutted from the direction the demon had once been. A figure cloaked in shadow approached Roman, footsteps squishing through the muddy grass. A quick snap, and an orb of golden light erupted into being. Roman gasped, and shielded his eyes. The sudden light startled him, and it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. Blinking, he saw a man standing before him, glowing sphere of amber light bobbing above his outstretched right hand, illuminating only half of his face. He wore a fancy suit and caplet about his shoulders that looked perfectly dry despite the torrential downpour around them. Atop his head sat a bowler hat as black as the night around it, and thin yellow gloves covered his hands. 

"Where did... who are...?" he muttered, still trying to wrap his foggy head around what had just happened. 

The man approached him and, crouching down, brought the light to his chest. Roman gasped as the rest of his face came into view. 

He smirked and tipped his hat. "You may call me Dorian. Now, let's make this deal, shall we?"

* * *

Roman held his hands out to a sputtering fire, sitting in tense silence across from the stranger who had once been a demon. Firelight flickered across the strange scales plating the left half of his face. His outfit was odd as well. Roman hadn't seen anything like it anywhere... in modern times at least. He didn't know the last time he—it? Dorian?—had interacted with the outside world. 

"Are you sufficiently warmed?" Dorian asked, looking him over with that terrifying eye that only reminded Roman of what this apparent human once was. What he _really _was.

He nodded.

"Don't lie to me," Dorian chided, "I will not be making a deal with a child halfway to the grave with hypothermia." 

"I'm n-not a child," Roman said, wishing his teeth hadn't chattered as he did. Truth be told, his clothes were still soaked, and the fire only did so much for the front half of him. The wind whipping through the cave still drew heat from his back. Sighing, Dorian flourished a hand his direction, and Roman shrieked, in a very manly way, as warm air suddenly buffeted him from all sides, drying him instantly. 

"Better?"

"...Yes," Roman said, even managing a small noise that somewhat resembled "thank you."

"Very well, if that's all in order," the demon said as if he were arranging important papers on a desk, "Let us discuss the terms of this contract. First, my side of the bargain: I do hereby swear to reveal all knowledge regarding the dissolving of said party's current magical restraints—what's wrong? Am I going to fast?" 

"What? No, it's just..." Roman grappled with what he was trying to say without getting himself killed. "This isn't how these things usually go."

Dorian cocked an eyebrow. "And how many magical contract signings have you been a part of, pray tell?"

Roman's ears grew red and he stammered, "Well... _one, _but it wasn't—I mean, I guess they don't all have to be the same, I just assumed that it would—that you'd do it like Ursula with the whole blood ritual... thingy."

The demon's face twitched with an emotion that Roman couldn't have named if you'd put a gun to his head. Maybe it was a magical demon thing? Regardless, Dorian shook his head ever so slightly and took a breath. 

"No. This contract will not contain any blood rituals. Just parchment and ink—and a little magic for binding purposes, of course." Another wave of his hand, and a scroll of yellow paper that Roman would have sooner seen in a museum than in someone's hand and a bottle of ink with a large black feather sticking out of it appeared on the ground next to him. He picked the scroll up and unfurled it. "Now, back to what I was saying. Where was I? Ah, yes..." he rambled on, explaining the contract with a bunch of strange magic-jargon, and Roman hadn't the slightest clue as to their meaning. He could have Roman agreeing to pull out all of his teeth and make them into a necklace for all he knew. Dorian paused once more, looking down his nose at Roman with exasperation. 

"What is it now?"

"I have no idea what you just said," he admitted. 

The man sighed and set the scroll down. "Okay, listen. I will tell you everything you need to know to break this curse, and how to keep it from happening to anyone else, but in return I need you to kill the immortal witch-traitor Ursula."

Roman paled. "You're joking."

Dorian rolled his eyes, "While I doubt a truth-telling spell necessary, if you insist..." He held out his left arm and the sleeve of his suit pulled up, revealing more scales like those on his face. 

"What are you talking about?" 

Dorian scoffed, "What am I—what are _you_ talking about? Are you really going to keep up this charade even now? Honestly, I thought it was insulting earlier, but really... wait you're serious? You don't know about your powers?" He looked genuinely taken aback.

Roman laughed. "Yeah, because if I had powers, I'd definitely _not use them_ while fighting a giant snake-demon."

Dorian's previous unintelligible expression degraded into udder disbelief. "You're telling me she didn't even _tell you__?"_

"Obviously not."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, "Okay... okay, okay, okay, this is fine. I can work with his. An heir with no knowledge of his power. This is.... this is a disaster."

"Your vote of confidence is overwhelming," Roman grumbled. 

Dorian stood, and Roman felt his fear return. He'd almost forgotten who he was talking to. It was easier when he looked semi-human. 

"This dawn is almost here. Return home, little prince, and tomorrow, we'll finish this conversation... We've got a long way to go."

* * *

_"Blackbird singin' in the dead of night," _Patton sung softly to himself as he waltzed around the kitchen looking for a spatula. Pancakes rose tall and fluffy on the griddle and if Patton didn't hurry, they'd get a little more brown than golden. He located the plastic utensil after a few seconds of looking, finding it in the wrong drawer. Virgil must have emptied the dishwasher, the little angel. Patton found it more endearing than annoying. At least he'd tried to help, right? Glancing at the clock on the oven face as he flipped the pancakes, he found it was nearly eight o'clock. Roman would be out of the shower soon, and Logan would be—

_That's right,_ Patton thought with a soft smile, stealing a look at the figure passed out on the couch. Fallen asleep studying again. Honestly, what was the point of having a bedroom if Logan was going to stay up into the unearthly hours of the night and just sleep on the couch? Truthfully, however, Patton found it just a smidgen adorable, but he wouldn't tell Logan that. He was sure Logan would sooner eat his fork than be told he snored like a kitten. He looked out the kitchen window, and sighed. It was raining—he suspected it had been through the night given how flooded their garden was. He hoped it wouldn't affect his herbs too much; he was planning on making spaghetti tonight and if he only had wilted oregano, what was the point?

_"Take these broken wings and learn to fly..."_ The pancakes were done. Time to figure out where Virgil had left the syrup. _"All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to ar—_Roman!" Patton squeaked and nearly dropped the powdered sugar container, finding him leaning against the bottom of the banister, a strange look on his face. "I didn't hear you come down," he chuckled, a little embarrassed. 

"What song was that?"

"...You don't know Blackbird? It's pretty popular, or, I guess, it _was_. I'm not too up-to-date on my music, kiddo."

Roman considered for a moment, then shook his head. "No, I've definitely heard it before, I guess it just sounds different when you sing it." He walked over and pulled out a stool, still lost in thought. Patton watched him with a hint of concern as he plated and served the pancakes. 

"Will you do me a favor, Ro, and go wake Logan up? He's just over there on the couch."

"He's on the—oh, for crying out loud," he groaned, standing and sauntering over. He leaned forward and flicked the tip of Logan's nose. "Rise and shine, Sleeping Nerdy." Logan jerked awake, cracking his forehead against Roman's. They both curled in on themselves, hissing and blinking tears from their eyes. 

"You did that on purpose," Roman grumbled, stumbling back to the counter. 

Logan squinted at him, "You're home."

"Yes, of course I'm home, Logan. Where else would I be?" he snapped, in a little too much pain for patience at the moment. 

"Logan, if you don't start going to bed at a reasonable hour in your own room, I'm going to have to ground you," Patton said with a smile. 

Logan sat up, rubbing his head. "You do know you're not actually my father, Patton. Right? I'm a year _older_ than you."

"Don't you go talking back to me, young man." Patton waved the spatula Logan's direction, and couldn't help but notice the small smile gracing his face at his words. 

Roman speared a piece of pancake and ate it viciously. "I can't believe you stayed up again."

"Oh, that's figuratively rich, coming from you," Logan retorted. 

"Hey, hey, what's going on, guys?" Patton said, unplugging the griddle and setting out Logan and Virgil's plates. The latter had yet to show face this morning, but Patton figured he'd be down any minute. "Did something happen between you two?"

Roman snorted, "You could say that."

"It's nothing to concern yourself with, Patton. Thank you for your concern, but we can deal with it on our own."

"...Okay," he said, a little put out. He understood that it really wasn't much of his business whatever they were arguing about, but he couldn't help wanting to assist in some way. Otherwise, he felt sorta useless. It wasn't like he did much else around here other than cook and clean and work with his mom at the nursing home. There, it was his job to help people with their problems, or talk things out with them, or keep them company. There, he was needed. 

The backdoor opened suddenly and a sopping wet Virgil stepped over he threshold, trembling like a leaf. 

_"Virgil!"_ Patton cried, rushing forward. "Oh my—why were you outside? How long have you been—" he stammered. 

He numbly tried to pull away from Patton's worried hands. "I'm f-fine, Pat. I'm fine, I just—_let go!"_ he barked, and Patton jerked away, shocked. 

"I... I'm sorry, Virge. I was only trying to help," he said, his voice small and quiet. Why was everyone so angry all of a sudden? Was it something he'd done? Virgil looked immediately regretful, his expression softening. 

"I know, Patton, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled, it's just... I lost something really important to me last night."

_Do you wanna talk about it? _Patton wanted so desperately to ask, but didn't. He simply nodded, took Virgil's wet jacket from him and watched as he retreated upstairs to his room. Patton took a breath, put on a smile, and turned back to his other two roommates, who were having a silent conversation with their eyes. Swallowing, he placed Virgil's jacket in the laundry room to dry, then returned to the kitchen and ate his breakfast in silence. 

* * *

Virgil didn't want to come back downstairs to eat after what had happened, even if he was ravenous. He'd spent the rest of the night searching with no results. He knew what he had to do, but dread sprouted in the pit of his stomach even thinking about it... and then he had to go and snap at Patton like that. He groaned and ran a hand down his face as he tossed his sopping clothes into his hamper and pulled on some clean, dry ones. 

_What am I going to do?_ he thought to himself, standing frozen with his hand on his doorknob. He'd have to go downstairs eventually, but what would he say? What _could_ he say? 

Reluctantly, Virgil exited his room and padded down the stairs in his socks. Logan was gone, presumably for work. The school year hadn't officially started yet, but all of the teachers were expected to come in and begin setting up their rooms and submitting their curriculum for review—something Logan found very tedious, and would talk any one of the roommate's ears off about. Roman sat alone at the kitchen, a bowl of cereal milk sitting in front of him with a few stray pieces of cereal evading his spoon. 

Patton was nowhere to be seen. 

"Hey, Ro," Virgil said, approaching. "How're you holding up?"

"I'm fine. Why do you ask?" he replied, his smile just a little too perfect. Virgil wouldn't have been able to see through it, however, if he didn't already know what was really going on. It was strange, though. Roman usually had this hollow look in his eye, the hopelessness Virgil had only seen in those on their way to the gallows. Now... it was different. Still tired—tired beyond belief—but somehow... 

"No reason," he said around the lump in his throat, forcing a small smile. Roman's brow knit together ever so slightly. Virgil swallowed and continued, "Where, uh... where's Patton?"

Roman's expression relaxed, as if he'd figured it all out. He jerked a thumb toward the back door. "His sitting out back."

Virgil nodded, expressing his thanks, and made his way outside. The breeze was in that in-between stage, where one could tell it had once been stifling and hot outside but the rain had cooled it like a burn under cold water. Patton sat on the end of the porch, his legs crossed and a mug of steaming tea cradled in both hands. Virgil closed the door as quietly as he possibly could, and stood in the doorway awkwardly, not knowing how, or really wanting to, break the silence. 

Patton sighed, and tapped the space next to him with a hand. Virgil felt his throat close up, and briefly considered bolting back inside before steeling himself and taking the few steps forward and sitting next to his friend. 

"Patt, listen, I'm really sorry about what happened this morning. I was really stressed, and I know that isn't an excuse for being mean, but I just—"

"It's all right, Virge," he said, gazing into his mug of tea with an expression that Virgil doubted meant: _it's all right, Virge. _But what could he do? He doubted there was really anything at this point that he could do besides keep talking and digging himself a little deeper into the hole he'd begun this morning. He wasn't good at words. Well, he _had _been quite the smooth-talker all those years ago, but ever since...

_No. You promised not to think about that again,_ he scolded himself, tugging his jacket even tighter around him. That wasn't what he needed right now. Right now, he needed to make things up to Patton, and find what had been stolen from him. 

He had to find his button.

* * *

Everyone but Virgil was gone. Patton had gone to work after a few more minutes of sitting in silence and pondering, and Roman had expressed a need to "clear his head" and had taken his truck out nearly thirty minutes ago. Finally with the privacy he so desperately needed, Virgil rummaged through the cupboards and drawers in the kitchen. Where did Patton keep all the herbs? He could never figure out where anything was in this blasted place. Eventually, he found it:

Rosemary. Or, as many from the Witchlands referred to it, Queensleaf; it was named after the first Witch Queen herself. Roman absolutely despised the smell, claiming it made his nose itch. Virgil found this quite ironic, but kept the comments to himself. 

Dumping a pinch or two into the palm of his hand, Virgil replaced the lid, put it back in the cupboard, and headed outside to the backyard. Normally, he wouldn't take such precautions, but without his button, who knows what could happen? Sure, it was just a simple tracking spell, but one could never be too cautious... right? Biting the inside of his mouth—a habit he'd yet to shake, unfortunately—he approached the old pine tree and scattered the small sprigs around the dirt he'd hastily refilled last night before heading out on his frantic search. Hopefully, that would do the trick. Using Queensleaf during spell-making was considered paranoid and somewhat superstitious, but Virgil had seen things that would make even the most stoic witch stuff rosemary up their nose at the slightest hint of magic. 

_"Bid the earth till its ground, thus what's been lost soon is found," _Virgil muttered, feeling the magic flow out of him in a sort of jerky, detached way. He withheld a shudder. He really needed his button back, and soon. Regardless, the Queensleaf seemed to do its job and the spell came out just as it should. The air around him stilled and everything went silent, as if he'd stepped into the shadow realm. His gaze was drawn downward by an unseen force and he watched as the imprints of a pair of feet made their way across the grass from around the side of the house. They stopped in the middle of the yard, turning around a few times. The top half of the right footprint disappeared and reappeared rapidly, as if the owner had been tapping their foot. A pause, then the footprints made a beeline for Virgil. He stepped to the side and watched with growing distaste as the footprints stopped right above the spot where they box, with his button, had been buried. 

A small indentation appeared in the dirt next to the prints, and the thin lines of invisible fingers digging into the soil began scoring the ground. The thief had dropped something in the dirt before digging. Virgil stepped over the prints and squatted down to inspect the small disturbance more. Perhaps he could discover what it was they'd dropped? Unfortunately, the dirt hadn't acquired anything close to a clear imprint, and the pine needles scattered everywhere didn't help. From the looks of it, the object was about the size of a quarter, give or take a little, of course. 

The faint click of the metal box's latch being undone snapped Virgil out of his thoughts. In the air, hovered the now empty metal box he'd reburied. Unknown hands hefted it, shaking it a little, then slowly opened the lid. Virgil watched, not having to imagine too hard to realize that this was the moment his button had been taken. The subsequent tossing of the box back into the hole and the sloppy foot shoving the dirt back on top then tamping it down for good measure didn't help his mood much, either. The prints did a little dance, then jerked to a stop. The ghosts of fingers frantically dusted away pine needles and pinched something up out of the dirt. A small puff of dust appeared in the air. 

Virgil nearly shook with rage. They'd _dropped _his button in the dirt, and blown the dust off like it was some—some measly piece of _plastic. _As if it was just that, and not an important talisman literally tying all but the most basic of his magical abilities to his body. 

Lips pressed together in barely contained frustration, Virgil followed the now obviously gleeful footprints across the lawn and around the house. It wasn't until he reached the edge of the front lawn, that he realized a major problem. 

Footprints didn't exactly show up on cement and asphalt. 

_"Charge me now to seek the thief, let light shine forth and seal their grief," _he muttered. Again, the magic came out halting and shuddering, but came out all the same. No one would be able to see the spell but him, so he wasn't too concerned about following a pair of now glowing footprints making their happy way down the street. 

Virgil followed the trail in circles around town, ignoring the strange looks he got from the fellow townspeople going about their day. A few times, he almost got hit by a car when he became too focused and the path veered suddenly into the road. Was this thief drunk, or something? Surely, they'd stolen his button for a reason other than to prance around town with it. He still couldn't be sure Ursula was behind it, though. While she'd seem pleased at his misfortune, he couldn't prove it was more than that. Besides, while she seemed the most likely to do something like this, she was the least probable suspect. She was halfway across the world, for crying out loud. 

But who else could possibly know about it? 

_Actually, _he thought sourly, _there are quite a few people that come to mind. A witch, a hobgoblin, a few sprites..._ The list grew quite extensive the more Virgil thought about it, so he conveniently stopped thinking about it and focused on the task at hand. The prints wandered down the alley behind the Chinese restaurant, illuminating the otherwise dim surroundings. Virgil's nose wrinkled at the rancid smell of rotting food and watched with disgust as the glowing footprints—and now hand-prints—rummaged through the trash for, he assumed, something to eat. 

The invisible hands picked up a styrofoam takeout box and...and took a bite out of the box itself. 

Virgil's temper didn't boil over. No, rather, it simmered, and reduced down into a thick syrup of pure, white-hot rage. Fists clenched, he turned his back on the alley, and ended the spell with a furious wave of his hand. 

"..._Remus_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say hello to the trash man *jazz hands*


	6. to sleep, perchance to dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patton has a dream, and Roman makes a deal.
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from "Hamlet" by William Shakespeare (Act III, scene 1)

The next night.

_Running. Running and panting and trying not to collapse and possibly die and runrunrundon'tdiedon'tdie! Chasing. Or rather,_ being_ chased. __Something big, with big knives... or teeth, or something, but it didn't really matter. What mattered was it was trying to kill him. He couldn't see it, but he could hear it. Hear it slithering, hissing, laughing a low gravely laugh. _

_"You can't hide from me, little prince" it growled, ravenous. Tress fell out of the darkness, blocking his path. He scrambled a different direction, slipping on dirt and pine needles. Faster, faster, it was catching up. He couldn't run anymore. Something tore at his insides. His legs buckled beneath him, caught on something invisible. It was going to get him and—_

Patton woke with a start, finding his arms and legs tangled in something and he couldn't get away_couldn'tgetaway—_

He tumbled over the side of his bed with a _thud, _smacking his head on the side of his nightstand. Chest heaving, he grabbed at whatever was around him and, oh, it was just his blanket. He lay there for a good few minutes before his brain realized he was awake and safe in his bedroom. Sighing, he sat up and wiped his face with a trembling hand. He wanted—_needed_ to turn on the bedroom light, but didn't trust himself to stand. 

"It's okay. You're alright. You're safe. It wasn't real, it wasn't..." he trailed off. But they _were... _weren't they? Or, at least, they _had_ been, at one point or another. However, these last few months, they'd been getting stranger and stranger, and reality hadn't been mimicking them. Well, as far as he was aware, anyway. As a child he'd had dreams like these, but about mundane things: getting groceries, conversations he would have with his teachers or friends, things like that. Things his mother quickly told her eight-year-old son to keep to himself because "it wasn't natural." It wasn't until moving out that the dreams had become more... fanatical. They rarely made sense and often left him questioning what had even transpired. 

_You should be glad,_ a voice in the back of his head sneered. _At least you're dreaming like a normal person now, right?_

Looking to his left, he saw that it was nearly midnight. His throat itched with thirst and he swallowed dryly. He needed a drink of water. Slowly standing and keeping a hand held out to test his balance, he made his way to his door, which he'd left open a crack. He enjoyed the faint breeze leaving his door and window slightly open produced, and had grown quite accustomed to it. Pushing the door open with a finger, he stepped out into the hallway. 

_That's strange,_ he thought, looking at the partially illuminated stairway. The downstairs lights were on. Did Virgil forget to turn them off again, or was Logan simply ignoring both his and Roman's pleas to go to bed at a decent hour? Placing his hands on his hips, he strode toward the stairs and opened his mouth to speak when a noise cut him off. A soft, breathy sound, like someone whispering. A conversation? Patton stopped, and crouched near the top of the banister, out of sight from whoever was speaking below. Normally, he was totally against eavesdropping, but something inside him told him he'd regret not listening. 

"...worked! I can't believe it! His name is Dorian, and he was, like, a normal—well, I take that back—a kinda half-way normal person once he dropped the whole giant-demon-snake thing." Patton's eyebrows bunched in concern. Was that Roman? What about a giant demon snake? Patton's mind immediately flashed back to his dream, and he had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from gasping.

_You can't hide from me, little prince._

"But wait," another voice—Logan?—cut in, snapping Patton out of his thoughts, "You said that you two made some sort of deal? What were the parameters?"

"Well, not _yet. _I'm sure we'll talk about it more tonight, but I've got the basics down. He'll tell me how to break this stupid curse, or whatever, and all I have to do is kill an immortal dragon-witch," Roman said, gradually growing less and less confident in his rendition of this "deal."

Patton could almost see Logan pinching the bridge of his nose. "So, what you're saying is that you've gotten rid of one curse just to replace it with another one? One immortal demon for a different immortal witch?"

Roman scoffed. "I'm just glad I'm still here to tell you about this, Specs. After all, this was _your _idea."

"I see your point," Logan relented. There was a pause, then, "Just... be careful. Okay?"

"Of course."

Patton leaned back against the wall as he heard the front door open and shut. Out of sight, Logan sighed and settled onto the couch. Patton barely breathed, trying to digest what he'd just heard. 

He might just have to scratch the whole "dreaming like a normal person" thing, after all. 

* * *

Roman sat cross-legged in the grass just outside the forest, feeling calmer than he had in... a while. Sure, he was still about to spend most of the night with a strange demon-snake-man-thing that he was pretty sure still wanted to kill him, but things were getting better. At least, he hoped they were. The curse churned within him, though he was used to the pain; almost numb to it, actually. Soon, he'd be able to sit and look at the stars without feeling like his intestines were being run through a meat grinder. 

Something moved through the grass next to him, and he tensed, reaching for his sword. It turned out to only be the cat from last night. Roman chuckled and held out his hand. The feline padded over, pressing its head against the palm of his hand and purring loudly. Roman scratched the side of its head, then wrapped his arms around his knees and stared at the forest. The cat sat next to him, wrapped its tail around its feet, and looked into the dark depths alongside him. 

"You know?" Roman said softly, leaning towards it ever so slightly, "You remind me of my friend."

The cat's ear twitched. 

"He doesn't talk much, but he feels a lot. I can tell. There was this one time when I was a teenager, I was really upset with my dad and wanted to run away. He was the one who convinced me to tough it out and stay. He said, 'You can always start over, but good things take time. If you throw something away before you give it time to become good, you'll never know what you could have gained.' I don't know how he comes up with this stuff," Roman said, picking at the grass, "but I'm glad he said it." He looked down and saw that the cat was now staring at the night sky. The stars reflected off its eyes like pools, deep and wise and knowing. Something pulled at Roman, and it wasn't the curse. No, this pull was... different somehow. First of all, it didn't hurt. It felt more like the drawing together of two magnets that had always meant to meet. Secondly, it didn't _actually_ pull at him. In a way he could explain, at least. It was like it was tugging at his mind, at the bizarre ocean of unknown deep in the pit of his subconscious—and yet, somehow he _knew. _Like he'd known with the Silkweed. He couldn't explain it, but something about this cat... just _something._

"I'm, uh," he continued, rolling his shoulders, "I'm going to break the curse."

The cat looked at him intently, and Roman felt pinned in place. He tore his gaze away. 

"You're just a cat. I don't know why I'm telling you this, but hey, here I am, talking to an animal. All right, time to get a move on," he grunted, standing. The cat made a strange chirrup noise and Roman stopped. That same tugging tickled the insides of his ears and sent shivers down his spine. He ignored it, focusing on the painful pulling behind his navel. 

He stepped into the forest. 

* * *

"Hello?" he called into the night. Roman wasn't exactly sure how to go about this new arrangement. Sure, he'd still brought his weapons with him, but that was just a precaution. If Dorian got to keep the ability to turn into a giant demon snake at any point, Roman definitely got to keep some weapons around. 

"Greetings, little prince." Dorian stepped out from behind a tree without a sound. 

Roman jumped. "_Jeez, _warn a guy, would ya? Also, stop calling me 'prince'. I have a name, you know? I told you and everything."

"...Yes," the man said distastefully. "Shall we head to the cave before continuing our conversation from last night?" he said, already walking away through the trees. 

Roman's hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword. "Uh, do we have to? I don't think it'll rain anymore and the clearing's much closer." There were two reasons for this. First, Roman didn't quite like the idea of being in an enclosed space with someone who could spontaneously explode into a giant snake. Second, the last time he'd entered a cave with a magical entity, it hadn't really ended well for him. He'd like to avoid a similar situation.

Dorian stopped, but didn't face him. His figure cut a sharp silhouette, tall and imposing as the trees around him. "There are things in this forest that I would prefer not overhear our discussions."

"Other things? But I haven't—"

"I tire of this," Dorian hissed, turning on his heel. His one snake-eye glowed a rich gold, casting light against his face and shining through the darkness around them. Roman jumped, and tried to swallow, but his heart was hiding in his throat and refused to move. His mind flashed back to that night with Ursula. Her eyes had glowed a similar color. 

Dorian took several steps forward, the movement so smooth he might as well have been gliding. Roman gripped his sword. _"You," _he growled, his voice returning to that grating rumble that usually accompanied his serpentine form, _"are a naive, ignorant,_ stupid _ little boy who has decided to make a deal with a demon without knowing anything about what he's getting himself into. Now, you can either follow me to the cave, or I can return to my previous engagement of hunting you for sport."_

"I, uh..." Roman managed, his words failing him. How was it that Dorian managed to be _more_ intimidating as a person than in his demon form? "To the cave, then, I guess."

"Very well," Dorian said, and turned around once more, disappearing into the night. Roman cursed under his breath and ran after him. Did he have to wear black? Roman barely remembered how they got to the cave last time, as he was near delirious with hypothermia, and wasn't too keen on wearing Dorian's patience even thinner by getting lost. 

The cave proved to be much farther into the woods than Roman realized, and it took nearly an hour of hiking to reach. Dorian plowed forward, not breaking a sweat or even flushing at the exercise. Roman wasn't red-faced or panting or anything—he was used to fighting for his life and running around for six hours, if that didn't build up a person's endurance, nothing would—but he was surprised at the total lack of exertion on Dorian's face. His arms barely moved at his side and his eyes never wavered from their target in front of him. 

Eventually, however, they reached their destination. Roman entered the cave and had a proper look around as best he could with the given light situation. It wasn't very spacious—only a dozen feet or so at its widest. It did, however, run deep into the mountain, farther than Roman could see. He contemplated shouting, to see if it would echo, but thought better of it and turned to inspect the fire pit. It was cold and dead now, the blackened coals and half-burned logs sat in a damp pile. Roman reached out at dragged a finger across one. It came back covered in a sooty paste. He looked up at Dorian, who stood with his back to the cave, silent and unmoving as if he were watching for something. 

Roman cleared his throat. "The wood's wet, we'll have to—"

"Nonsense," Dorian muttered, snapping his fingers. A fire burst into existence with a roar, and Roman yelped, falling back in surprise. A hint of a smile graced the demon's face as he settled down into a seat on a nearby boulder. "Now, I don't see why we must waste anymore time with explanations. Are you ready to make the deal, or not?"

Roman took a breath. "I am."

"Very well," Dorian stood and came around to his side of the fire. Roman, in a less graceful fashion, also stood. The demon was shorter than him in this form, but somehow that didn't downplay his level of intimidation. Every time Roman saw that golden snake eye, he remembered the monster that stalked his every night, that hunted him, and fought him, and drove him completely insane with paranoia. This was the creature he was about to make a deal sealed in magic with? 

Dorian unfolded the parchment on which the contract was written and placed it on the ground between them. He pulled up his sleeve, exposing an arm riddled with patches of scales just like those on his face. 

Roman took a step back. "Wait."

"What is it now?"

"I have another request I want to add on," he said, hoping he wouldn't get his throat ripped out for it. 

Dorian's eyes narrowed. "And what exactly would this request entail?"

"I'll kill the dragon witch for you if you help me break the curse, but you have to promise to stop trying to kill me."

The demon put on a sardonic grin, "Please, I'll waste away with my favorite plaything gone."

"I'm serious."

"So am I. I've been alive longer than even the oldest of demons, and I've been dealing with Ursula and her infernal curses for the past three centuries." He leaned closer, his grin stretching. "I've found boredom to be the worst of tortures."

Roman exhaled, trying to keep his hands from flying to his weapons. He really didn't want to start a fight before he'd gotten the information he wanted. "What assurance do I have that you won't simply kill me after we make this deal? Or even if you don't, I need to focus all of my energy on breaking this curse and fulfilling my side of this bargain. I can't be doing that when I'm worried you're going to bite my head off every single night."

Dorian sighed, dropping the expression and stepping back. "I suppose you make a valid point. All right, I'll also agree to cease hunting you and refrain from inflicting any fatal bodily harm under the caveat that you fulfill the conditions of the contract within three months." He waved a hand and Roman watched the words appear in ink on the parchment. 

Three months. Twelve weeks to break his curse and figure out some way to kill an immortal dragon witch. Easy. He could do that. Right? 

"Okay," Roman said, moving closer to Dorian and pulling his sleeve up his arm. The demon gripped his forearm, and Roman his. A strange tingling sensation began to spread from where their skin met. It reminded him vaguely of the feeling of removing the amulet. The butterflies in Roman's stomach turned to ants, crawling and biting and stinging and _oh, this was a bad idea what washethinking—_

Gold threads of light sprouted from Dorian's free hand. His demon eye brightened and his brow hardened in concentration as he wound the magical thread around their clasped hands. His lips moved wordlessly and Roman fought to keep his breathing under control. 

_It's okay. You chose this. Everything's fine,_ he repeated over and over in his head, but it didn't seem to do much. 

Dorian's chanting faltered. Roman looked up. "What's wrong? Why'd you stop?"

"You're shaking."

"I'm—? Well would you look at that," he said, shifting nervously. "You'd think I was making a deal with a super scary demon, or something."

Dorian's fingers held the golden thread motionless above their hands. "Are you sure about this? We can stop. There's still time—"

_"No!_ I, uh—I'm fine. I... I need to do this," Roman said, gritting his teeth and willing his hands to be still. They did. Dorian watched him for a moment, then resumed the rhythmic chanting. The magical thread reached its end, and Dorian tied it off. His grip tightened ever so slightly and Roman watched with baited breath as the gold light seeped into their flesh and it... it didn't hurt. It was warm and filled Roman with a strange sort of energy that made his heart flutter like he'd gone over the crest of a roller coaster. He felt a soft tickle on the pad of his thumb and watched as his thumbprint appeared in ink across the bottom of the contract alongside a runic symbol he didn't recognize.

He blinked, and it was over. Dorian released him, and stepped back, rolling the contract up in his hand. Roman looked at his arm, inspecting the faint, pale lines criss-crossing his skin. 

"Is... Is that it?" he asked tentatively, flexing his fingers experimentally. 

"Yes." Dorian pressed the paper to his chin thoughtfully, then quite unceremoniously tossed it into the fire. Roman tensed, but seeing the demon's unconcerned expression, he assumed it was a perfectly normal thing to do. 

Roman sat down. "What happens if one of us can't fulfill their end of the deal?"

"You mean, what if you don't kill Ursula within the time frame?"

"Or you get too bored and kill me on accident," he added cynically. "What happens then?"

Dorian snorted. "Let's just keep to our sides of the bargain. Speaking of," he said, replacing his glove and smoothing out the sleeve of his jacket, "I'm supposed to teach you about your curse, yes?"

"Uh, yes?"

He sighed and sat down across from the fire. "That, little prince, is a long story..."


	7. you know they were made to be used

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian serves his Queen to the best of his ability. Always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: manipulative and toxic relationships, emotional abuse, intense pain, graphic imagery, implications of torture
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from "To be of use" by Margie Piercy.

400 years ago.

The Witchlands.

The palace was abuzz with nerves. The cooks in the kitchen kneaded bread in the basement nervously. The servants went about their chores with the quick, curt movements of someone waiting for something bad to happen. The head butler strode furiously up and down the halls, barking orders and polishing china until his fingers blistered. Groundsmen brushed the horses, trimmed the gardens, and swept the walks with barely a word to one another. The palace guard patrolled every inch of the palace, faces as stoic and unmoving as the statues in the Great Hall. Tension flooded the castle until everyone inside waded through it up to their knees. 

Today was the day. The Witchlands would receive the newest heir to the throne. 

In a not-so-quiet room secluded in the most secure location in the castle, Queen Inez growled and screamed and threatened maids with their lives as the new heir came into the world. The prince consort paced outside the door, dodging the maids that rushed in and out with hot towels and rags muttering things about his wife that he couldn't quite hear over the pounding of his own heart. The captain of the royal guard approached him, a look of amusement on his face. 

"What if something goes wrong? What do we do then? If something happens to Inez, or the baby—"

"Your Highness..."

"I don't know the first thing about children, let alone a royal one! What if it doesn't like me? What if I'm not a good father?"

"Darren!" the captain barked, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him a little. He chuckled. "Calm down. Everything's going to be fine."

Darren took a breath, "You're right, Lawrence. Thank you. Did you have something to tell me?"

The captain straightened. "The palace is completely secure, my lord. I'd be surprised if a mouse got in without my men's say-so."

The prince gave a weary smile, and patted Lawrence on the shoulder. "What would I do without you, captain?"

"What, indeed?"

A maid poked her head out of the door. "Pardon me, your highness, captain," she said, giving a lopsided curtsy as best she could, then turned her attention back to the prince. "The queen will see you now."

Darren exhaled, and nodded, following the maid into the room with one last glance at his childhood friend. Lawrence gave him an encouraging nod. Inside, Inez lay on a bed, completely red faced and sweating, but just as gorgeous as the day he fell in love with her. A small bundle of cloth sat clutched against her chest. 

She looked up at him and smiled. "Come meet your daughter, love."

"Daughter?" he breathed, feeling like he'd been hit over the head. He had a daughter? He was... a father...

Inez laughed at his expression and beckoned him closer. "Come now, she won't bite."

Darren approached, and his breath hitched in his throat. "She's beautiful."

"She is," the queen cooed, stroking the baby's face. "My little Rosemary."

* * *

Fourteen years later.

The sky was a brilliant, clear blue. Entirely too brilliant for a funeral, in Rosemary's opinion. The sun was out, making the air humid and sticky and about as unbearable as it possibly could. A line of green-clad beings wound their way down the palace road, through the valley, to the burial site. The procession was nearly a mile long. Every witch, arcanist, nixie, and sprite in the land was in attendance, paying their respects to their once glorious Queen Inez. Rosemary lead the throng alongside her father, her dress a deep, mournful green, reminiscent the black colors that humans in the outside world wore when one of their own died. Though, no one here would recognize the similarity except perhaps the guards or any particularly well-aged witch. 

Personally, Rosemary favored the Witchland's own tradition of green as the common funeral color; it made things far less dreary, reminding them all of the infinite cycle of life, and such. However, sometimes the world _was_ dreary, and wrapping herself in lime green felt... wrong.

Rosemary glanced over at her father. He looked sad and tired, and she wondered if he'd have any trouble making the journey. While he certainly was not the oldest witch among the procession, he wasn't the youngest either. His hair was white and the creases in his face guided the beads of sweat away from his eyes and down the side of his face. She would have asked him how he was fairing, but speaking was frowned upon during a funeral procession, especially a royal one. 

The entire affair took too long, and not long enough. Rosemary might have been fourteen, but she wasn't ready to give her mother up just about yet. She held no illusions regarding her complete competence to be Queen beginning today—honestly, change was needed soon, else the Witchlands would fall into economic ruin due to nobility running around with entitlement shoved so far up their backsides they cried gold leaf and ball gowns—but Rosemary doubted any one of her plethora of advisers would ever amount to the diplomat, strategist, or leader her mother had been. 

And yet, as the funeral came to an end, and as the last spade-full of soil was patted down atop the old queen's grave, no one could deny the feeling of anticipation and excitement rippling through the crowd. 

Rosemary turned, and started back up the road to begin her coronation.

* * *

Twenty-two years later.

Dorian walked quickly down the corridor, a pile of books stacked high in his arms. The royal librarian had been rather irked at the continuous stream of his books being funneled into the basement of the palace. He doubted that the man would express such concerns if the queen herself had come up to request the books, but the very thought of her having to make the trek up and down the narrow spiral staircases between the ground level and the research lab she'd set up in the basement made him cringe. He didn't mind. It was his job, after all, as the head of the queen's personal staff. 

"Morning, Dorian," a woman piped cheerfully as they passed. 

"Good morning, Esther," he replied, leaning around the books to meet the young maid's eye. She smiled, her brown hair bouncing about her freckled face like silk ribbons and her cheeks flushing.

"May I walk with you?"

"Certainly." Dorian enjoyed her company, despite the fact that she was a bit infatuated with him. He had no romantic interest in her, but found she listened to his ramblings far more patiently than most other people he'd met. 

"On another errand for Her Majesty, I assume? What is she doing down there all the time? You'd think she'd want to get out and feel the sun every once in a while—not that I'm criticizing the queen, I never—"

"Relax," he chuckled. "I know what you mean. The queen's research is quite important to her, which means it's important to all of us, but I assure you I will suggest she go for a walk around the grounds later this afternoon."

Esther folded her arms. "May I speak rather freely? You won't tell the queen I said it?"

He smiled. "As long as you aren't planning an assassination, my dear, she won't hear a word of it."

"Do you think she's grown a little distant from the kingdom? She used to be so involved in the affairs of the Witchlands, but ever since she started her experiments, you're the only one who even _sees_ her... I'm just worried for her. Everyone is."

They came to a stop just outside the staircase, and Dorian shifting the books in his grip. "I understand your concern, but trust me when I say that the queen is fine. Her research is for the good of the kingdom." He gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder and began descending the stairs, the lie bitter on his tongue. It was true, everyone was worried for the queen. 

But no one was more concerned than he was. 

She'd grown obsessed with harnessing immortality shortly after her father passed from illness. Dorian wasn't exactly sure what had changed within her, but ever since, she'd only shown her face for the bare minimum of state affairs and public appearances. Esther hadn't been lying when she said he was the only one who saw her on a regular basis. She trusted him—or, at least, she trusted him the most out of anyone else in the palace. It was tragic, really. She was ten times the queen her mother ever was, with more magic in her little finger than most people ever encountered, and yet she stayed locked up in her own castle. Dorian had never seen anything like it before, but she didn't think it was enough. 

But she was the queen, and Dorian was loyal to her until his dying breath. He would do anything to ensure her happiness, even if it meant feeding into her isolating research. He couldn't help the way his chest tightened when she laughed, or the way his heart stuttered when looked at him. Despite his best efforts, he was completely and utterly hers. 

Dorian reached the bottom of the stairs and pushed open the heavy oak door with his shoulder. The acrid smell of complicated chemicals, herbs, and poultices assaulted his senses and made his eyes water. The basement was quite large, though it was now cluttered with various tables, shelves, smelting pots, and even a small make-shift forge they'd constructed in the far corner. In the middle of the room, the queen hunched over a beaker of liquid, looking rapidly between it and a scrap of paper in her hand. Her hair was a mess, and she wore a maid's blouse and trousers she'd probably snatched from the groundsmen. The first and last time she wore one of her proper gowns down here, she'd caught it on fire and nearly burned the entire palace to the ground. 

The door swung shut, but she didn't look up. 

"Ah, Dorian. Set them all over there next to the tinctures. Come, look at this," she muttered, squatting down and staring into the beaker from the edge of the counter. 

"Of course, Your Majesty." He set the stack of books down on a wooden table with dozens of glass vials stacked precariously high, and joined her beside the beaker. "What am I looking at?"

She pointed a nail at the small specks floating freely in the cobalt liquid. "Look. The kystrine is congealing into droplets. Do you know what this means?"

"I'm afraid not, my queen."

She stood, muttering to herself while looking around for something. "Ah!" she cried, seizing a dark, intimidating book from a different table. She flipped through the pages, a few of them singed black from who-knows-what. “Here… when placed in an acidic solution of mugwort extract and its complementary bases, kystrine will congeal and solidify, becoming conducive to extraction and concentration. Combine this new extract with hemp, witch hazel, blah, blah, blah—oh! Once combined and heated, the solution will produce a serum known colloquially as The Blood of Drok’ben. Dorian, this is what I’ve been searching for for _years! _I've created a potion of immortality!” the queen laughed.

Seemingly without thinking, she jumped up, grabbed his face, and kissed him on the mouth. Stars exploded in Dorian's eyes and his knees nearly buckled. His entire body buzzed with energy, like he'd been struck by lightning; he could practically taste her magic, it was so potent. She pulled away and continued rambling and laughing into her hands, rushing around the basement. Dorian stared ahead, fingers lightly touching his lips. His mind wasn't working right, like she'd put him under a spell or hit him over the head with a brick.

"...back to the library. I won't be needing them anymore. Well, I might need this one for a little while longer, but—hey, are you listening to me? Dorian?"

"Huh, what? Oh, apologies, Your Majesty," he said, still a little dazed. "What did you need?"

"Take these books back to the library. I'll be working late tonight. Bring my food directly down here."

"Yes, Your Majesty. Right away."

* * *

The sun was setting, and Dorian sat in the kitchens with his chin resting on his hands, staring out at the horizon. 

"Ya look awful dreamy today," Maybelle, the head cook, commented. She kneaded a giant ball of dough with rough, calloused hands, and forearms that looked like they could snap Dorian in half. "Might I presume it has somethin' ta do with Her Majesty the Queen?"

His ears reddened and he turned away. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're insinuating, Belle."

"Don't use that silver tongue'a yers with me, boy," she snapped, pointing a flour-covered finger his way. "I've seen a love-struck fool enough times to know one when I see it. You been jittery as a drok'ben-fearin' drunk, tappin' yer fingers like some infernal—"

Dorian stiffened. "What did you say?"

"Yer a love-struck fool."

"No, after that. Drok'ben. What about Drok'ben?" he demanded standing. 

Maybelle looked at him oddly. "Just a legend, really. A pixie-tale about a man who tried to live forever and got turned to a monster fer violating the laws o' nature, or somethin'. Real sad tale. Why?"

Dorian stumbled back, putting a hand on the counter. "A monster..." he echoed sickly. It couldn't be true, could it? Just a pixie-tale, as Maybelle said, and yet... 

_...known colloquially as The Blood of Drok'ben._

"How... how did he do it?" he breathed.

"What?"

"The man in the story, how did he attempt to become immortal!" 

Maybelle looked up, thinking. "Ah, I haven't heard the story maself for a while, but he was some sorta chemist. Mixed things that weren't meant to meet 'n stuff like that. Was his own undoin'."

It was ridiculous. Dorian knew it, and yet he couldn't get the image of the queen drinking that cursed serum without researching, or testing it, or _even_ _thinking. _He bolted from the kitchen before Maybelle could so much as open her mouth to ask what was wrong. He sprinted down the palace corridors, barely avoiding crashing into a group of guards. 

"Hey!" one of them yelped. Another, reacting faster, grabbed Dorian's shoulder and yanked him to a stop. 

"Why are you running? What's the matter?"

Dorian could barely speak, he was so frantic. "The... the queen, I—I believe she's in grave danger!" He barely got the words out when the guards grew terrifyingly stern. 

The one that grabbed him nodded, "Lead the way." They all ran down the hall, and in the back of Dorian's mind, he worried about bursting in on the queen's research with a group of hysterical guards. They rocketed down the staircase, and he nearly tripped and fell a few times, but somehow kept his feet underneath him. 

"Your Majesty!" he cried, slamming the door open. The queen looked up from her seat at one of the tables, a thin vial of golden liquid near her hand. Dorian's eyes locked onto it and he rushed forward. She stood, and he tumbled to a stop, barely keeping from running into her. 

"What is the meaning of this? Why are you all so upset? Has something happened?"

"You..." Dorian huffed, pointing to the vial. "You can't drink that."

"Excuse me?" Her expression grew dark. 

"Your Majesty," he amended, lifting a placating hand. "I know you think it's safe, but I have reason to believe—"

The queen's nostrils flared and she rose to her full height, a few inches taller than himself. "You are out of line, Dorian. You would do well to remember your place."

"But, Your Majesty—"

"Guards!" she cried and the men jumped to attention. "Seize this man. It seems he is under the impression he can tell me what I can and cannot do." 

Dorian felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. _This man. _As if she didn't know his name. Rough hands grabbed his arms and pulled him away from the queen. She picked up the vial and held it between her first two fingers. 

"I finally achieve my life's work, and you want to tell me that I shouldn't take it?" She stalked toward him and the pit in his stomach grew to a gaping hole. Despite this, he couldn't shake the overwhelming feeling that she was in danger.

"Please, my queen, if you would just listen. I believe that the potion you hold will do far more damage than good! You—" he cut himself off before he could say the words. _Yo__u don't know what you're doing. Please, I know it's not much to go on, but I feel it in my bones. This is bad. _

"And how, pray tell, do you know this?"

"I... I need you to trust me, Your Majesty. I would never strive to inhibit you in any way, and I only seek for your own well-being and the welfare of this kingdom. Please, do not drink the potion," he pleaded, pulling against the guards. The queen eyed him quizzically, and then suddenly her hand was moving, nearing her mouth and oh _no, she was going to drink itwaitwait—_

_"Rosemary!" _he shrieked, lunging forward again. "Rose, please, please stop, just—"

_SLAP!_

"You _dare_ address me so casually you insignificant worm!" the queen hissed. The guards tightened their grips, pulling him back once more. Dorian couldn't see through the tears in his eyes. "Fine," she spat, storming up to him. "You think it's so dangerous? Drink it yourself."

"Wh—What?"

"Prove to me that it really won't work. However, be warned. If it works, and you simply wanted to get your hands on my potion" she growled, "I will make your life a living hell. Now, drink it." 

Dorian's mouth opened and closed wordlessly as he struggled for some sort of response, _something _ that would convince her that he would never try to steal from her, much less take her life long dream away from her. 

Her expression softened and she placed a hand on his cheek. "You'll do this for me, won't you? If you cared about me, you would want to protect me. Right?"

Dorian's mouth snapped shut. "...Yes, Your Majesty." 

The guards released him, looking at each other with mixtures of confusion and concern. The queen held out the golden vial, a murderous look in her eye. Dorian didn't know exactly what the serum would do to him, but if him taking it in her stead would save not only her, but the kingdom as a whole, it was a risk he was willing to take. Her words echoed around his skull. _If it works, I'll make your life a living hell. _

With a hand that he was surprised was as steady as it was, he took it from her, and drank. 

Nothing happened. 

It tasted like acid, and, strangely, absorbed into his body the second it touched his tongue. He hadn't even needed to swallow. He looked at the empty vial in his hands, then up at the queen, and his stomach dropped through the bottoms of his feet. She had the calm disposition of a volcano about to decimate an entire countryside. 

He'd been wrong. Blinded by his paranoia for her safety and the mumblings of legends that meant nothing. She was the smartest person he knew, of _course_ she'd known what she was doing. His heart wrenched. He'd stolen her one life goal from right in front of her.

"Take him to the dungeons," she breathed, glancing at the guards behind him. "I will decide what to do with him later."

"Yes, Your Majesty," one saluted, stepping forward and reaching for Dorian's arm. Dorian opened his mouth to apologize, beg forgiveness, say _something, _when the air in the basement shifted. All of the hair on his arms and neck stood stick straight and the room felt electrified. Not a second later, a horrible pain gripped Dorian's entire body and he gasped, falling to his knees. The queen and guards all took a step back, unsure what was going on or what they should do. His eyes burned like hellfire and tears that felt thick and strange streaked down his cheeks. He touched his face, and it came away covered in gold liquid not unlike the potion he'd ingested. He looked up at the queen—at _Rosemary_—and saw gold light reflecting off her face from his direction. He blinked, and the light flickered. His eyes were glowing. 

"What's happening?" she asked, though she sounded more intrigued than afraid. Another wave of pain shook Dorian's body, and he shuddered, groaning. 

"I..." he managed through shallow breaths, looking up at her face once more. He managed a pained smile, and laughed wetly. "I'm so sorry." A few seconds later, stars exploded behind his eyes and his mind whited out. 

* * *

One year later.

Dorian didn't remember what it was like to be human. Sure, he saw the servants when they brought down food for the prisoners, or the guards whenever they came to get a kick out of torturing them, but he couldn't remember what it was like. What it was like to have legs, and bob up and down when you walked, or feel your hair tickle your face, or your cheeks grow taut with a smile. None of it. It was depressing to think about the fact that it only took a year for him to forget what he'd looked like for thirty. So, he didn't. He forgot that he had once been a normal man, who loved, and smiled, and laughed. No, now he was just the beast that guarded the dungeon. 

The familiar clang of the dungeon entrance being unlatched out of sight atop the winding staircase snapped him out of his thoughts. He was coiled in on himself, his head resting lazily atop his body. Quick, light steps tapped out a staccato that echoed around the cavern. Eventually, they slowed, and a small head peeked around the corner. 

It was a girl. A maid. Brought food for the prisoners, most likely. Dorian had quickly discovered after his transformation that he no longer required sleep, food, or even water to survive. Not that he never ate, but the last time he recalled actually eating something was when one of the guards had slandered the queen whilst bringing down a new batch of prisoners. The act of eating in this form disgusted Dorian, but he had quite enjoyed that particular experience. 

The maid was short, with brown hair like silk ribbons and a round, freckled face. A flick of his tongue, and he was suddenly aware of the hot blood pounding through her body at abnormally high speeds and her clammy, cold hands. It was strange, this double-sight he'd acquired. He couldn't quite explain it, but it worked in light or dark and he'd found it quite useful in catching prisoners trying to escape. 

The girl took a breath, and stepped out into the open. She carried no food tray with her. Dorian stared at her unblinking, his tongue flicking out once more curiously. No one was allowed down here unless given permission from the queen or on an express errand.

"Hello, Drok'ben," she called, hands clasped tightly behind her back. He chuckled internally at the name. He'd been surprised when the guards had begun addressing him as such—the few times they _did_ address him—and found it funny in a sad, tragic sort of way. Often times, he forgot which was his true name.

“I—I know I’m not allowed down here for personal reasons, but I was hoping I might visit a friend of mine? His name is Dorian and I’ve been told he’s being held down here.”

Dorian couldn’t withhold the earth-shaking laugh that rumbled out of him at her words. She let out a squeak of surprise, but didn’t retreat. He slithered forward, slowly unraveling his body with a sound like a rockslide. He could tell her pulse quickened at his movement, and yet she didn’t bolt. She didn’t even look away from him. 

_ “This is not an inn, little one. You do not visit the people here.” _

The girl swallowed. “I want to know why he’s down here. No one will tell me. Not even the queen. He is my friend, and I don’t believe he would purposefully act against the queen. I’m... worried about him.”

_ “Do not concern yourself with him. He is lost.” _

“What does that mean?”

Dorian bristled,_“You try my patience, child. Get out before I decide to do something about it.” _

She pressed her lips together, looking as if she were about to cry. “All right, but would you at least tell him that Esther came to visit him?”

Dorian froze. Bouncing hair. Giggles. Sunlight cast across a pale, freckled face. Faint annoyance that faded into fond amusement. Berry tarts snuck under his door in the middle of the night, and constantly asking what he was up to around the castle. 

“Um, Drok’ben?” Esther asked softly, looking somewhere between concerned and absolutely terrified. 

_"Leave," _he managed, turning away from her and burying himself beneath the weight of his own monstrous body. _Stop it. Stop remembering. It will only cause you pain,_ he thought bitterly. Despite his attempts to run away, he heard her reluctant retreating steps as they faded and the click of the dungeon door. He sat like that for a long time, lamenting the fact that he never slept. Then, at least, he could escape his life for some stretch of time. Over the course of his time in the dungeon, he'd discovered a sort of pseudo-sleep he could slip into if he was undisturbed for long enough. Less like being lost in thought, and more like drowning in them. Completely submerging himself in the darkness of his own mind. He would still be aware of his surroundings and able to "wake up" if someone came down the stairs, but time seemed to pass a little faster.

"Would you look at that," a hoarse voice—a woman's voice—chuckled from the direction of the cells. It was soft, and a normal human would not have been able to pick it out. Dorian didn't move. "Never seen a young lady get the best of a demon before."

_"Be quiet."_

The voice cackled, devolving into a fit of coughing. "Excuse me if I'm not trembling in fear, but a butler turned into a wingless, legless dragon doesn't exactly fit my idea of intimidating." The other prisoners gasped and hissed at her to keep her mouth shut, did she want to die?

Dorian shifted, and sighed tiredly, _"Do not make me repeat myself."_

"Oh, but you want to hear what I have to say. I can offer you something that no one else can."

He considered it for a while, playing the options in his mind. He really had nothing to lose by listening to her, aside from peace and quiet. If she began to annoy him, he could always break into her cell and eat her. The queen would not appreciate him eating her prisoners, but this particular captive had been locked up for years—even before he'd... changed. He doubted Rosemary had any use for her other than keeping her out of the way. 

He poked his head out from underneath his body and examined the rows of cells extending out behind him. He could see the heat of all of the prisoners radiating through the cracks in the walls. The voice had come from down the hall a ways. His head was bigger than the doors, and if he _did_ end up deciding to eat her, he'd have to damage the walls. Quite the effort to go to for something so worthless. But what did he have to lose, really?

Sighing, he slowly slithered forward toward the cells. The hallway was narrow, and his body rubbed against both walls with almost a metallic clinking against the iron bars. Usually, he'd avoid small, constricting places like this as he wouldn't be able to turn around, and moving backwards wasn't exactly this body's forte. Thankfully, however, the cell block was a square U shape, and he'd be able to loop around. The other prisoners—the ones that were conscious, at least—grew deadly silent, and a few even began to cry or mutter to themselves. 

Dorian reached the cell door and peered inside with one of his eyes. The prisoner in question sat slumped against the stone wall of her cell, hair matted with blood and several cuts traveling up and down her body. She looked horrible. 

_"Well?"_ he demanded. 

She raised her head to show her face. From her vantage point, she'd only be able to see his one eye, and a portion of his head, and yet her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, you're beautiful," she breathed. Dorian tensed, resulting in a horrible scraping noise from the other cell doors he was pressed up against. Other prisoners gasped or screamed.

_"Do not waste my time."_

"Right... sorry," she mumbled, still entranced. With what looked like a considerable amount of pain, the woman dragged herself to the door. She reached out with a tentative hand, then pulled back. "May I?"

_"No," _he snapped, _"You may not. Now, tell me what this offer is before I lose my patience and eat you."_ The woman pulled herself into a cross-legged position and smiled. 

"You are far more powerful than you realize, Dorian," she began. It was strange hearing someone say his real name for once. Even the queen herself called him Drok'ben. He wasn't sure how he felt about it, but didn't interrupt. "Being quite the accomplished witch, myself, I'd be willing to help you harness that power."

_"And why would I want to do that?"_

She scoffed. "Are you kidding? You're a prisoner here, too. Don't you want a chance to esca—"

_**"I am not a prisoner,"**_ he roared, something inside him clicking. The witch's eyebrows shot up. "_I am a loyal servant to the queen, and will perform my duty to the best of my abilities, unlike you, traitorous swine."_

"You mean to tell me you turned yourself into a demon and _volunteered_ to guard a dungeon for the rest of time?"

_"Without question,"_ he hissed with more conviction than he'd heard in his voice in months. He couldn't help it. He loved her with his entire being. Even if she hadn't forced him to drink the potion, he would have done it anyway. Again, and again, if it meant her happiness. 

"Oh, sweetie," she murmured, reached out toward him again. He jerked back, cracking his head against the ceiling and sending a shower of dust over the both of them. 

_"Who are you, and what do you want?"_

The witch smiled. 

"My name is Amaryllis, and I can help you turn human again."

* * *

The first time he'd actually done it, he broke down crying for hours. It was simple magic, according to Amaryllis, just a basic transfiguration spell, but it had taken him weeks. Not because he was weak—Amaryllis explained that he had more inherent magic within him than most other magical creatures in all of the Witchlands, if not the world—but because being an enormous serpent instructed by a human witch confined to a small cell with limited resources turned out to be quite the challenge. 

In the end, however, he did it. Kind of. He'd had a sort of existential crisis when he'd discovered the left side of his face and body, but after a fair bit of long-distance reassurance, Dorian was able to come to terms with it. On the bright side, he still retained all of the enhanced senses and inhuman strength that he had as a serpent, but nothing could compare to being in a human body once more. It was amazing. Getting to run, and jump, and stretch, and speak with a normal tongue and human teeth and _oh, _it was bliss. He would have never turned back, however shortly after this accomplishment, a group of guards entered the dungeon and Dorian, panicking, had shifted back into his demon form before they could see him like that. Unfortunately, he found that he still lacked the ability to sleep, but he found this a small price to pay for being able to turn human again.

As the days passed, he became more and more comfortable with the transition. He was able to make the shift smoothly and effortlessly, now—and, after much trial and error, figure out how to transform back wearing clothes. A miracle, really, as running around the dungeon stark naked hadn't been the best of experiences. A simple suit and dress shoes, just like he used to wear.

He spent as much time as he could as a human, sitting in front of Amaryllis' cell learning to harness his powers. 

Despite the fact that he considered the witch a shaky friend and was indeed grateful for her help, he had no illusions about his remaining loyalties, and kept no secrets from her about it. If the queen asked him to kill her, he would in an instant. She never seemed surprised at his comments, but rather, a bit sad. 

He also grew to know the other prisoners under his watch, as well. Anouk, a blacksmith who had taken up illegal smuggling as a way to pay off a debt. Killian, a masterful arcanist who had been incarcerated for malpractice. Jerika, an unhinged murderer who took an unsettling interest in his scales, human form or otherwise. Aside from the crazy ones, Amaryllis seemed to be the only one who actually _tolerated_ his presence. Anouk, whose entire family had been killed in some accident, held his life without concern and frequently taunted Dorian in an attempt to get him to kill him. 

It went on like this for another year or so, Dorian steadily growing in magical ability and surety of himself as a person. The only times he returned to his demon form was when guards or servants came down. Thanks to his hearing, he was usually able to hear the door open even when he sat amid the cells.

So, when he returned to the large open area out in the main part of the dungeon and found Queen Rosemary standing there, dumbfounded at the lack of a giant serpentine demon, you can imagine Dorian's surprise. He hadn't even heard her come in, let alone descend all of the stairs. He hadn't been _that _distracted, right? Or maybe he was just growing complacent?

He cleared his throat, straightening his jacket and approaching the queen. "Your Majesty."

She jumped, her eyes shooting to him. A dagger was in her hand, which she pointed at him from across the room. "Who are you? What happened to..." she trailed off, unbelieving recognition flashing through her eyes. "Dorian?"

"Indeed." He couldn't keep the smile from his face. 

"You're... human again."

He chuckled, "Not quite. But human _enough, _my queen."

"But the serum," she said, still rife with confusion, "It's irreversible."

"Quite so. This," he gestured to himself, "is a simple transfiguration spell. I am still, and forever will be, that demon."

She took a step back. "You never knew how to perform magic before."

"It seems being transformed into a magical being has its side effects," he said, keeping a good distance between himself and the queen. How he longed to rush to her, to hold her hand with his own, but from the wariness in her eyes, he could tell that he wouldn't get far if he so much as took a step in her direction. No, she wasn't afraid. He expected no less from the most powerful witch in the land. Wary, on the other hand? Very much so. 

Moving slowly, so as not to spook the queen, he lowered to a knee and placed a fist against his chest. "I am at your service, my queen."

He didn't move as he heard her approach, keeping his gaze at the stony ground. A hand, softer than silk, slid against his cheek and brought his face up to meet her eyes. Dorian felt his eyes grow wet. She'd touched his scales. _Willingly_ touched them without a hint of disgust or derision. 

"Even after all this time," she whispered, pulling him to his feet, "You are still loyal to me?"

"Of course, my queen. Forever, and always," he breathed incredulously. How could he have been so careless? Surely, it was his fault she had forgotten. He hadn't been loyal enough. Guilt still gnawed at his insides when he remembered drinking the potion. Her face as he stole what could have been her biggest achievement. 

She cocked her head to the side, running her thumb across Dorian's cheekbone and sending shivers down his entire body, and, with a hint of a beautiful smile, asked, "Do you love me?"

"Yes," he said wetly, relief flooding him. "I loved you from the moment I met you."

Her smile split open, revealing a perfect row of teeth. "Good," she said, and pulled him into a searing kiss. His mind spun and his entire body burned, like he'd downed an entire glass of the strongest whiskey from the palace cellars. Her magic washed over him, seeping into every bit of his being and making it hers. Not that it was particularly necessary, but Dorian didn't mind. He felt weak in the knees, like he'd pass out from the sheer power of the kiss. He was out of breath when she finally pulled away, looking as put together and beautiful as ever. 

"I believe a change in occupation is in order."

* * *

Two years later.

The throne room was full of every one of the palace officials. Generals, magistrates, elders, even the queen herself. Dorian sat coiled behind the throne, where the queen enjoyed him the most. Even though the throne itself was intimidating, his body would take up most of the back area, small as it was, and proved quite the terrifying display. It made the "right sort of impression" as she had explained when first giving him the role of enforcer. He loved his job. Not only did he accompany the queen wherever she went, but he also got to punish those who dared speak or act against her. Sure, she still had guards for the everyday sort of threats, but nothing struck more fear and respect into the hearts of her subjects than seeing her walk down the street flanked by a demon. 

Today, however, was different. Before them, bound in chains, was the traitorous witch Ursula, a terrorist who had attempted a coup d'etat against the queen. Next to her, a black cat had been stuffed into a small cage—her familiar, most likely. Dorian smiled internally as he remembered the look on her face when all of her rebellious troops turned on her. Had she really thought that she could outsmart the Witch Queen herself? In truth, they had known about the rebellion from the start, and and made sure to supply her efforts with spies and double-agents. She only received the information that the queen wanted her to know. Of course, there had been a few unforeseen complications, including the destruction of the dungeons and the escape of all of the prisoners, but in the end their gains outweighed their losses. 

Dorian felt an all too familiar sense of guilt rake through him as he remembered the prison break. He remembered the look of silent pleading Amaryllis had shot him as he'd come barreling down the stairs to kill them all. He'd told the queen that none had survived. In reality, they'd all escaped, because he'd been too weak to fulfill his duty. How pathetic. 

"Bring the traitor forward," Queen Rosemary stated, and two guards shoved Ursula forward. She fell to her knees, numb with disbelief. The queen grinned wickedly. "Oh, wait! I remember you! You're that little girl who called herself the Dragon Witch. Right? What a cute little nickname. Well, anyway, you have been found guilty of treason, acts of terror against the Witchlands, malpractice of magic, and the deaths of hundreds of innocents."

"But that wasn't me!" she shrieked, looking up. "It was your men who—"

"Shut up," a guard snapped, cuffing her sharply over the head. She fell silent, tears streaming down her face. 

The queen looked down at her with glee. "You wish to plead your case? By all means," she sneered, gesturing to the room full of her subordinates. 

Ursula looked up at her through her hair, breathing heavily. "You aren't a queen." 

The whole room stiffened. The queen's nostrils flared, but she said nothing. 

"You're nothing more than a vicious tyrant who's so obsessed with power she can't even see how her kingdom despises her," she spat. Dorian tensed up, making his body even bigger and more imposing. He moved to strike her, but the queen held up a hand and he stopped, despite the look of absolute terror washing through Ursula's face at his movement. 

"Common law dictates that any witch found guilty of one or more of these crimes is subject to death by The Hounds," she said with a smile. A shiver ran through the room, and even Dorian would have flinched if he'd been in his human form. What a horrible way to die. Ursula paled, and the queen continued. "However, I believe a different sort of punishment is in order. Since you think I'm such a vicious tyrant, you will merely be banished from the Witchlands. A slap on the wrist, really," she laughed. Dorian, along with the rest of the court looked at her incredulously. Was she serious? However, looking at Ursula's face, it was evident what the intended purpose was. It was an insult. The queen was insinuating that Ursula's rebellion wasn't drastic enough for a death sentence, or even incarceration. She was effectively being put in time out for the rest of her life. 

She went on, "I think you'll find that life on the outside isn't as kind as you'd like to believe. You'll have to tell me how the view is from the human world. Send me a postcard, or something."

Ursula bared her teeth, "You insufferable little—"

"Guards, take her to the edge of the Witchlands and see that she leaves for good, will you?" she said with a wave of her hand, dismissing the entire affair. While Dorian would have loved to kill Ursula himself for her treasonous acts, but he couldn't deny the truly magnificent mind of the queen. Now, she could be justified in being called merciful, while doing possibly the worst thing aside from killing Ursula. 

The witch and her familiar were dragged from the throne room. 

Surely, that would be the last they ever saw of the Dragon Witch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just like Thomas to reveal Janus's name after I've already named my deceit-type character *loving eye roll*


	8. secrets, running over my soul without sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil bites off a bit more than he can chew... Luckily, Logan knows the Heimlich

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mild violence, panic attacks, and negative self talk. 
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from "Secrets" by Lola Ridge.

"Life went on like that for years," Dorian muttered, staring into the fire with his knuckles resting against his lips. Roman's eyes hadn't left the demon's face in a dozen minutes. It hadn't changed. It hadn't so much as twitched aside from his mouth moving as the words flowed. It was inhuman, though Roman figured that would make sense. Dorian wasn't exactly human himself.

Anymore, at least. 

Still, Roman didn't see how this related to himself, or his curse, but he didn't dare interrupt. Somehow, he knew that if he stopped him now, he may not start again—tonight at least. Roman glanced at the mouth of the cave. They had maybe an hour until his curse would lift. 

"The Witchlands didn't see a hint of Ursula for years, but there were whispers. The pixies spread rumors of the Dragon Witch returning, of her finding something; a weapon of some sort. Something that surpassed anything Rosemary had only dreamed of. She heard the rumors and she..." his voice cracked, and he blinked slowly, meeting Roman's gaze. His eyes, the human one and the other, were dry. Unswollen, and not even a little bit red, and yet full of so much pain and suffering and downright exhaustion Roman physically felt it. 

He sniffed, and looked down again. "She had me... _ dispel _ the rumors. Over the course of the next few months, I became known as Bloodwyrm. An omen of death. When stories were written, it was I that the heroes were sent to slay. Children were compelled to be good for fear of my wrath." He shifted. "But I digress. At one point or another, Ursula circumvented the magical borders around the Witchlands she could no longer cross, and sent her familiar into the castle to steal another one of the queen's chosen projects. I took care of it swiftly enough, but Rosemary was paranoid. In a show of power, she drafted a curse in my own blood and had an envoy sent to deliver the letter to Ursula. You should have received a similar letter detailing your own curse."

It took Roman a while to realize he was being addressed and nodded quickly. He'd become enthralled and almost forgot why he was telling the story in the first place. 

"This curse, however, was created so that it would enact itself as soon as Ursula opened the letter and read it."

"Why'd she open it, then?" Roman said, his first words in several hours. "She knew what it was, right?"

"Yes. Of course she knew what it was, but you can't simply reject these sorts of letters," Dorian explained, smiling at him as if he were a child asking why the sky was blue. "Back to the point of all this. Upon opening the letter, the curse began. According to the words of the queen, I was to hunt Ursula to the ends of the earth, never resting until her blood wetted my fangs and she lay dead before me. Compelled by its power, I left the Witchlands, never to return until my task was finished. I had confidence that, if I could not kill her myself, at least I would outlive her and be able to return, once more, to my homeland. However," Dorian's face grew hard, "Ursula proved far more intelligent than Rosemary had given her credit. After only forty-five years, she managed to perfect what Rosemary could not. Even as I pursued her with tireless advances, she somehow harnessed immortality—the correct way. And so I found myself stuck in a never ending cycle, of unkillable chasing unkillable, both trying to end the other."

"Okay," Roman said slowly, "I still don't see what this has to do with me."

"When someone as powerful as the Witch Queen dies, to continue her legacy, she can create what is called a Witch's Inheritance. Such an inheritance guarantees that her firstborn—and every firstborn's firstborn after that—receives the full potential of her powers. You, little prince, are a direct descendent of the Witch Queen, and thus have unimaginable power."

Roman barked a laugh, "I think I would have noticed if—"

"You are the firstborn of your mother, correct?" Dorian cut in, losing patience.

"Yeah?"

"And she was the eldest of her siblings, was she not?"

Roman swallowed. "Yes. She was." 

"This is not our greatest issue, so please, just know that I tell you the truth and let us move on," Dorian said, glancing at the readily lightening skyline. The fire popped. "In her old age, Rosemary's anger overcame her and she banished her eldest son from the Witchlands after he claimed she was not fit to rule any longer. The inheritance was lost from the royal line, and that is why your ancestors lived out here, in the human realm. Rosemary died, and I was left fulfilling a curse I had no hand in. Ursula knew of this line of power and, after decades of constantly running from me, decided to take advantage of her enemy's latent power. She hunted down each and every firstborn she could find, forcing them to become her champions and keep me at bay for her." 

Roman's mind worked as if swimming through a pool of molasses, connecting the dots he never knew were there before. 

"Your family tree was, at one point, enormous. Hundreds of children born with the Witch's Inheritance to choose from. However, as they were all born outside of the Witchlands, only a few ever discovered their powers or developed them well enough to stand a chance against me. At most, an heir could keep me at bay for half a decade, maybe more, but in the end, I would kill them."

Dorian leaned forward. "_You _ are the last heir of the Witch's Inheritance, little prince."

Roman stared at the fire, pressing his mouth against his interlaced hands. He felt faint. "So," he began, his voice no more than a whisper, "my mother... you... you killed..."

"I did. I will not speak of her with any hint of authority, but know that you have my deepest apologies and condolences."

_ "Condolences?" _Roman hissed, looking up at the demon through wet eyes. "You ripped my life apart. You're the reason my dad's so—" his voice caught in his throat. He shot to his feet. 

"You must understand," Dorian said, making no move to stand. "The curse does not allow me to stop. I must be making a constant effort to find and kill Ursula. Whoever that witch sticks in my path I must kill, no matter the circumstances."

"I don't care!" Roman shouted, the tears finally spilling over. He couldn't remember the last time he'd let himself cry about his mother. He'd always had to be the rock in his relationship with his father. He wasn't allowed to be the sad one, but now... it was different. 

"Sit down," Dorian insisted, meeting his eye.

"I'm leaving," Roman growled, making for the entrance of the cave. The curse would lift soon and he couldn't stand to look at the creature in front of him any long—

_ CRACK! _

Dorian's body exploded out into its serpentine form, filling the entire front half of the cave and blocking the exit completely. Roman stumbled back, nearly missing the fire. The roof of the cave shuddered and Roman looked up nervously. Dorian's head shot forward, knocking Roman into the stone wall. 

_ "We had a deal, little prince, and I will not sit here and let a child throw a tantrum while there are far more important things happening in this world! Your mother is dead, and there is nothing you or I can do about it!" _

"Shut up!" he shouted, reaching for his pistol. 

_ "Do not insult me with your toys, little—ACK...krghh!" _the demon cried as Roman shot him in the mouth. He stood there, battling with himself over running away or filling the demon's mouth with every bullet he had. Old, dusty feelings combined to create a shapeless thing inside him. Its fingers tore into the soil he'd tirelessly compacted over the coffin where he'd trapped his grief and pain for the sake of his father. 

A wall of scales slammed into Roman's chest, and he saw stars as his head cracked against the stone floor. Dorian pinned him underneath his incredible weight, blood trailing out of the corners of his mouth and down his scales. 

_ "Get ahold of yourself," _ he snapped. _ "We don't have time for this. If you want to learn about your curse and how to break it, you must listen to me." _

Roman writhed under the snake's immense body, barely able to breath. He guessed it was pretty fortunate they'd already made the deal and the demon wasn't able to kill him anymore. 

"Fine," he managed, the fight leaving him. "Tell me what I need to know."

* * *

Logan sat in the dark of his empty classroom atop one of the desks, his feet on the chair. Under normal circumstances, he'd never ignore the proper use of a chair, but he was restless. 

Long ago, when they had all been in highschool themselves, Virgil had offered his solution of "sitting on things that weren't meant to be sat on" as a way of helping himself focus or gain new perspectives—literally and figuratively. He rested his elbows on his knees and pressed his chin into his hands, staring blankly at the wall. He could hear the teacher in the classroom adjacent to his prepping their classroom, the faint sound of staples being pressed into the felt siding bleeding through the wall. 

Logan had finished setting his own classroom up days ago, and was now focused on preparing for the first day of school next week. Or rather, he_had _ been focused. His attempts at being productive had borne little fruit, as Roman's reluctant explanation of his interaction with the demon—Dorian—and this so-called solution to his curse earlier that morning had plagued his thoughts.

Roman had come back numb and quiet, the way he always was after blowing up. His anger always left him empty and sad and far too much like his father for Logan’s liking. 

He hadn’t been covered in blood and injuries, so at least there was that. Instead, Logan had sat on the end of Roman’s bed and listened as he explained what had happened. 

There was no other solution.

The only way to break the curse was for Roman to die. He’d made a deal only to get information he’d already had. 

Before Logan could storm into the forest and give that demon a piece of his mind, Roman stopped him. He explained, in soft trembling tones, the loophole. The answer to their problem, given by the very source of the issue itself.

The amulet Ursula gave him. According to Dorian, the amulet would allow Roman to die and, upon its removal, bring him back. It was a terrifying thought. All they had to go on was the word of an untrustworthy magical beast who, until quite recently, had been seeking Roman’s life by any means necessary. This could be a trap. In fact, it was _ most likely _a trap. A ploy to trick Roman into killing himself over some foolish hope of freeing himsel—

“Mr. Sanders?”

Logan jerked, looking up. Two students stood in the doorway, the light of the hallway behind them hiding their faces. 

One leaned forward, “Um… why are you sitting in the dark?”

He cleared his throat, standing up and straightening his suit. “It’s of no importance. What can I do for you two?” He turned on the light.

“I’m Karla,” said the little blonde one on the right, “I’m in fifth grade.”

“Congratulations,” Logan said, dipping his head. “However, I’m afraid this is a fourth grade classroom.”

“Oh, I know,” Karla said, swinging the hand she had clasped in her friend’s. “But Hye-mi _ is. _I’m showing her around. She’s from Korea but she’s living with me and my family for a bit!”

“Salutations, Hye-mi,” Logan said, squatting down and holding out a hand. She looked to Karla nervously, who nodded. The shy girl shook Logan’s hand. 

“I look forward to having you in my class.”

“Thank you,” she said, bowing. Logan returned the gesture. The two girls turned and left, chattering and giggling to each other. 

Logan watched them leave, his smile slowly fading. His friendly, cordial self deflated like a balloon into the reserved, worried state he’d been in all morning. With a slow hand, he turned the light off again and lowered onto a desk. 

He covered his face with his hands.

* * *

Virgil raced down the stairs, leaning over the banister. "Hey, Pat?"

"Hm?" Patton hummed, looking up from the notebook he was doodling in. He'd gotten off work early today, or rather, he'd been _sent_ home by his mother, but he wouldn't explain why. 

"Do we have anymore Quee—er, rosemary lying around?"

"Rosemary?" Patton set his pen down and wandered over to the herb and spice cupboard. "Why do you need that?"

Virgil's mind raced for a believable lie. "I like how it smells," he managed, trying to sound casual. "I wanted to put some in my room."

"Oh, okay," Patton shrugged, pulling down a jar. "Looks like we're out of whole leaves, but I've got some ground rosemary around here somewhere. Will that work? I can run to the store—"

"Ground is fine," Virgil said, descending the last half of the stairs and meeting Patton in the kitchen. 

He handed him the plastic container, smiling, "Dinner's going to be in an hour or so, once Logan gets home." He looked at the clock, "He should be back any minute now..."

"What're you making?"

"Not sure," he mused, looking around. "I need to use up the rest of the tomatoes before they go bad, so maybe some pasta? I'll have to run to Mia's anyway to pick up some garlic and oregano..."

Virgil looked at him for a moment, forgetting to say something. Patton was the kindest human he'd ever met, and he'd met a lot. It was curious to Virgil how someone could be so optimistic and selfless without getting anything in return. Of course, the three of them always made sure to thank Patton and do nice things for him whenever the opportunity arose. 

"Is something wrong, Virge?"

He snapped out of his thoughts. "What?"

Patton smiled, amused. "You were staring at me."

"Oh, uh, sorry. Thanks for the rosemary," he stammered, then hurried off up the stairs. 

That was another thing about humans he never understood: how they managed to fluster him without seemingly any effort at all. 

Alone in his room, Virgil dipped his fingers into the squat plastic container of rosemary powder and traced runic circles around himself on the floor. He'd made sure to lock his door beforehand, not wanting to explain to Patton or Roman why he was drawing on the ground with herbs. 

Speaking of Roman, he hadn't left his room this morning. Logan told them he wasn't feeling well, and had already been provided the necessary medicine and supplies to take care of himself. It took several more minutes, however, to convince Patton that Roman simply didn't want to be bothered. Virgil couldn't shake the feeling that it had something to do with the curse.

Was he still in the mindset of letting the demon kill him? No, if he was, he'd be dead already. Dorian wasn't one to waste time when an opportunity was granted him. What had happened then? There was only one logical explanation, though the prospect filled Virgil with dread. 

He'd made a deal. Or was about to. 

One thing was for sure, Virgil needed to find his button. Then he could help Roman. Then he'd be useful. 

The spell he was about to perform to locate Remus wasn't hard. It was a basic spell that every six-year-old witch knew. As a familiar, he could also perform magic, in the technical sense. In fact, as a magical creature himself, it should be _easier. _

But he wasn't like every other familiar out there. 

He was broken, thanks to that slimy snake. Dependent on a stupid talisman to perform all but the most simple of magics. Transforming into a human, for one, was something every familiar was inherently able to do. There wasn't much technical magic involved, hence Virgil's retained ability to do so. The spell he'd used previously to figure out what happened to his button were easy enough, with the stabilizing power of Queensleaf to help him. He wasn't too sure how ground Queensleaf would fair, but hoped it would be enough. 

This spell, however, would be different. He'd have to call on spirits—something he hadn't done in decades. Finding a human was one thing, but a hobgoblin who didn't want to be found? Near impossible on his own... but he had to try. He had to do something. 

He couldn't let Roman deal with this on his own anymore. 

Dipping his fingers in the powder once more, he scrawled Remus's name on the floor in witchtongue—not as strong of a link as his true name would elicit, but it would have to do. 

Finishing, he muttered some quick words under his breath and lit the circle of seven candles surrounding the rosemary sigil. Stepping out of the circle himself, he plucked a few of his hairs and sprinkled them across it. 

He took a breath, holding out a hand. _"Alight your eyes to find who's lost, spirits grim and gaunt; scan the stars and ground below to bring me what I want." _

The light in the room dipped, the shadows in the corners solidifying and oozing to the ground like slime. The hair on the back of Virgil's neck stood stick straight, and his heart hammered in his chest. Not that he was scared of the spirits; he'd performed far more terrifying magic in his time. No, he was terrified for an entirely different reason. 

He felt the slow seeping feeling of power leaving him filled his chest, hitching and limping along like a crippled animal. Hollow screams that sounded a million miles away filled his ears and breathed across his face as a swarm of spirits materialized before him. The specters' faint, almost childlike chanting began and Virgil bit the inside of his mouth. He had to hurry and send them off before it finished.

The Song of Death. 

He'd heard the first half of it before. It was intoxicatingly beautiful and many a witch had lost their lives listening to it in its entirety. 

A slow ache pulled in his chest cavity, steadily growing more and more painful. The halted progression of the spell devolved into a grating, freezing sensation. Fear sprouted in Virgil's mind as he swayed, suddenly dizzy. What was he thinking? He wouldn't be able to complete a spell like this without his button! One of the great dangers of magic every witch learned in their youth was to never experiment with magic more powerful than themselves. Once a spell started, it could rarely be stopped. If you weren't strong enough to endure it... 

But, he'd done far more complex magic than this before! Dozens of times! Well, back before he became this broken, pathetic version of himself. Before he'd lost his talisman and reduced to nothing more than a cat with a few party tricks. Magic was like a muscle. Leave it stagnant for too long, and it atrophied. 

Virgil's fingers and toes went numb with cold. The spirits danced around him, the soft, enticing song filling his ears and making his brain go all fuzzy. The shadows swelled as if breathing, circling the room. The song was lilting and warm, like slipping into a bath of warm water after trekking through the snow for hours on end. It felt good. Virgil slumped to the ground, relaxing into it. 

How nice it would be, to never have to worry about anything ever again? To finally sleep without being tortured by nightmares of Ursula or Bloodwyrm?

Virgil couldn't breathe. The spirits surrounded him, enveloping him their frostbitten embrace. One more idiot familiar to add to their ranks. His chest spasmed and tears ran down the side of his head, but he still felt calm. The song was nearing its end. It was like nothing he'd ever heard before. Absolutely beautiful. 

.

.

.

Slow.

Cold.

So cold he felt warm.

The spirits shifted. Agitated. Something was coming. Already here? 

Annoyed muttering. Worried whispers. Shouts. Screams. Shrieks of rage and spikes of pain driven through every point of Virgil's body. He couldn't move, let alone react to the pain. Left alone in his mind to suffer through it. And then... 

Heat. 

Searing heat so intense Virgil felt like he was burning up. The spirits vanished, running from it. He coughed, spluttering up water that wasn't there, finding himself wrapped in someone's arms. He was shivering, yet felt like he'd been boiled alive at the same time. Every breath felt like fire. 

"...gil! Virgil, wake up! Please, don't be dead. _Please!" _A voice cried, shaking him. Or maybe it was just their arms trembling. It sounded like Logan. 

He tried to speak, but all that came out was a soft gurgle of pain. Quivering hands brushed his bangs out of his eyes. They were wet. Why were they wet? He opened his eyes a small amount despite the clanging, throbbing pain ricocheting through his skull.

"Logan?"

"You're alive," Logan breathed, relaxing somewhat. He rested his head on Virgil's, repeating, "You're alive," over and over again, as if he couldn't quite convince himself. 

"What..." he started, looking around as fast as his head would allow him. The spirits were gone. Had the spell worked? His eyes fell to the dark sigil on the floor. The rosemary was broken, swiped away and smeared across the floor. Dark black scorch marks remained where the sigil once had been. 

"What happened?"

"I was hoping you'd be able to tell me," Logan snorted, releasing Virgil. He scrambled back, knocking his head against the foot of his bed. 

Panic started bubbling up inside his throat. He knew. There was no more hiding. Logan knew, then he'd tell the others and then they'd all hate him and he wouldn't be able to help Roman anyway because he was too much of a_ pathetic weakling to even complete a simple spell—_

"Hey, hey, it's okay. I apologize, Virgil," Logan said softly, holding his hands up submissively. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I simply want to make sure you are okay."

"No, it's... I can't—You won't," he hiccupped, unable to get the words out. _Why couldn't he get the words out? _He couldn't breathe again. Was he dying again? It didn't matter, because that was his last resort. That was it. The spell didn't work. He wasn't strong enough to help his friend. _Wasn't good enough._

"Virgil, I need you to breathe for me. Can you do that?" He reached out and touched Virgil's hand. A sob escaped his mouth and he jerked away. Why would Logan touch him? Why be near him? He was loathsome. Undeserving. A complete and utter waste of space that—

"For thee the sun doth daily rise, and set behind the curtain of the hills of sleep."

_Undeserving. Loathsome. Why even try—_

"And my soul, passing through the nether deep, broods on thy love, and never can forget. For thee the garlands of the wood are wet, for thee the daisies up the meadow's sweep stir in the sidelong light, and for thee weep the drooping ferns above the violet." 

Virgil looked up through his puffy, watering eyes, chest still stuttering. What was Logan doing?

He leaned back against the bed next to Virgil, his face the epitome of calm. "For thee the labour of my studious ease I ply with hope, for thee all pleasures please, thy sweetness doth the bread of sorrow leaven..."

Virgil began to breathe easier. 

"And from thy noble lips and heart of gold I drink the comfort of the faiths of old, and thy perfection is my proof of heaven," he finished, opening his eyes and looked sidelong at Virgil. "Feeling better?"

"What was that?"

He smiled. "George Santayana's forty-fourth sonnet. One of my favorites, actually."

Virgil bit his lip, still hugging his knees, though markedly calmer and more collected. "How did you... know how to break the spell?"

"It was only logical," he replied, sobering. 

Virgil took a breath. "Listen, I know you probably have a million questions and aren't even sure if you can trust me, or—"

"You're right," he said, and Virgil's throat constricted. "I do have a plethora of questions for you, but you don't have to answer them right now. I only ask that you explain one thing to me."

"Okay."

Logan's brow knit together. "What was the purpose of the spell?"

"I... was trying to find someone."

"That is all?"

He nodded, then asked. "Where are Patton and Roman?"

"Patton is out acquiring ingredients for dinner tonight," Logan replied. "He was leaving right as I returned home. Roman, I'm assuming, is in his room bingeing Parks and Recreation and eating a pint of ice cream. I doubt he heard anything, if that's what you are concerned about."

"You mean, you won't tell them?"

"Not if you don't want me to."

"How are you so... okay with all of this?" he muttered. "You're acting like you see this kind of stuff every other day."

Logan chuckled and stood, approaching the door. "It isn't quite like that."

He gave Virgil one last reassuring smile before closing the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the wait, guys. But I hope you liked this chapter! Things are about to heat up!!!


	9. to face the question and answer throughout an eternity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil's going to help Roman with his demon problem, and Patton goes for a walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: implied talk of suicide, memories of finding a suicide victim, graphic imagery, brief mention of animal abuse
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from "Conscience and Future Judgement" by Anonymous.

Roman opened his door slowly, not feeling any better than he had when he'd returned this morning. He'd eaten far more ice cream than he'd care to admit, and barely spoken more than five words outside of his explanation to Logan. He'd been blasting Disney music through his headphones for the past two hours, but after repeating the playlist three times over, he'd grown sick of it and decided it was time to leave. He could hear Patton downstairs in the kitchen. A little farther down the hall Logan sat cross legged in front of Virgil's door, Roman's box of tools open at his side. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes. He held some screws between his lips, hands working through some sort of plastic packaging. 

"What are you doing?" Roman whispered, his voice strangely soft. Why was his stomach knotting up? He wasn't sick, was he? 

Logan looked up, eyebrows raised. "Hm? Oh, fixing Virgil's door," he said around the screws. "I broke it down earlier and bent the lock, so I went to the hardware store and got a new handle."

"You_ broke his door down?" _Roman stepped out into the hall, running a hand along Virgil's door frame. Logan jerked his head inside, and Roman saw a bundle of blankets atop Virgil's bed. If it weren't for the purple-socked foot peeking out from underneath, he wouldn't have known Virgil was under there. 

He lowered his voice. "Why?"

Logan's eyes grew hard as he unscrewed the old handle from the door. "I have been asked to keep such information confidential. From you_ and _ Patton."

Roman swallowed. A dark thought tickled the back of his mind. He hadn't actually... had he? He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. "Is he okay, at least?"

"Physically, yes," was all Logan said, which didn't help Roman's mood at all. He paused, lowering the screw driver. "You should go talk to Patton. He's been really worried about you."

Roman opened his mouth to say something more, but found no words on his tongue. Lowering his hands to his sides, he gave a weak nod and went down into the kitchen. He saw his last roommate standing at the sink with his back to him. Patton gazed out the window, forgetting the dirty plate held loose in his hands, not even touching the water streaming from the tap. Roman padded across the tile floor in his socks, a smile tugging at his lips. Patton was always off in some other world, it seemed. 

"Patt," he said, touching him on the shoulder. Patton jumped, dropping the plate into the sink where it shattered. 

"Oh! Oh no," he groaned, his hands flying up. His frustration melted in surprise as he met Roman's eye. "You're up."

"I am," he replied, hoping he didn't look as lousy as he felt. "Here," Roman said, gently moving between Patton and the sink, "let me help."

"You don't have to—"

"Nonsense. You shouldn't have to be cleaning up after the rest of us all the time," Roman said, moving the shattered porcelain into the trash with the skill of someone who was far too used to handling sharp objects. It was true, though he and the rest of them made special efforts to show Patton their gratitude, he _ did _ end up doing most of the chores around the house. Not because they were lazy, but because Patton got to them before anyone else could even lift a finger. 

"I like to clean," Patton said, leaning back against the counter. "It's... therapeutic."

Roman placed a handful of newly washed silverware on the drying rack. "Are you doing okay, Padre?"

There was a pause. 

"What do you mean?" Patton laughed. "I'm in tip top condition! They don't call me Helen of Joy for nothing, Roman."

He set down a plate. "Who's ever called you that?"

"I have! Now, let's talk about you, mister. I know you might not want to talk about it, but staying in your room all day can't be a good thing. I know! Let's go do something!" He pushed off the counter and raced across the tile, sliding a bit in his socks. "All four of us are home, and—"

"Patt, I dont—Hey, Patton, wait, I don't think—"

"Oh, we could go walking down main street like we did back in highschool! Do you remember that old antique shop by the watchmakers? We used to spend _ hours _in there, and Logan would—"

Roman grabbed him by the elbow and yanked him to a stop. "Patton, stop. We can't—I don't think everyone's quite up to something like that right now." 

Patton's smile grew confused, "What are you talking about? I'm sure some fresh air would do you good after sitting inside all day, and I promise not to pry or anything."

Roman sighed, trying to be as kind as possible. "Have you been upstairs since you've been home?"

"...No? Is something wrong?" Patton's expression wilted and he glanced upstairs. Roman kept a hold on his arm.

Roman pressed his lips together and jerked his head toward the couch. Patton followed, becoming visibly worried at this point. 

"I'm not sure what happened, exactly," he started carefully, glancing up at Patton, "but Logan had to break down Virgil's door while you were gone. Logan knows something about it, but he said that Virgil asked him to keep it a secret for now. Virgil's all right, though. He isn't hurt or anything. I saw him in his bed... so..." Roman trailed off. Patton didn't react. He just stared at Roman, as if his brain wasn't processing the words he'd heard. He didn't cry or whimper or even give that strong smile he always did when things got hard. He just sat there. 

"Patt?" Roman asked, slightly worried at this point. Patton blinked, then got up and ran both hands down his face, letting out a weary exhale. 

"I'm... going for a walk. I'll be back soon," he said, then left without another word.

* * *

Virgil slunk through the darkness, the night air ruffling his fur. It hadn’t been easy sneaking past Logan, who’d practically camped out in front of his door even after the new door knob was in place. Thankfully, he’d been able to escape without any complications. 

He couldn’t see Roman, but he could smell him. His trail led straight to the forest in the same path he took every night. Virgil trotted along behind the houses, careful not to lose the scent in the dampness leftover from the rain earlier this evening. He may not be able to find Remus, or his button, or do much for Roman, but there was still—

Something shifted in the alley to his left, and Virgil bolted, knocking over a glass bottle and shattering it as he did. He didn’t stop running for two blocks, his chest heaving. Shaking the nerves out of his shoulders, he looked up. 

A lone figure stood at the far end of the meadow, looking into the blackness of the woods.

* * *

Roman trudged through the muddy field, glad to be relieved of the weight of his guns and sword. Despite Dorian’s vow not to kill him, he’d still strapped his dagger underneath his shirt. 

Roman stopped before the treeline. He didn’t know why. He wasn’t waiting for anything, and wasn’t too scared anymore. Honestly, it was more likely spite than anything else. He still wanted to prove to himself that he could resist the curse. 

A dark-colored streak of apprehension shot through his mind, and he ran a finger over the amulet tied around his bicep. It had been a lie to say that he wasn’t scared anymore. No, now he just had other things to be afraid of: like dying to reverse the curse. He’d have to extract some of Dorian’s venom and drink it himself, as the deal they’d made restricted the demon from doing it directly. Dorian had assured him that he would remove the amulet himself after the deed was done, but the notion of letting a demon decide whether he woke up again or not left his stomach in knots.He’d wanted to ask Logan to come, but after what happened with Virgil, he didn’t want to worry him. Roman couldn’t imagine having to sit back and watch his friend die in front of him, even if there was a way to reverse it. 

Something moved in the grass, and he turned. It was the cat. 

“Hey, there, bud,” he said with a smile. He’d been trying to think of a name for it, but hadn’t been able to come up with anything that fit. The feline looked tired and a little disgruntled, mud coating it up to its belly. 

“Come to see me off again? Well, don’t worry. I won’t be going anywhere any time soon. I’ve got a plan,” Roman said, hoping that if he sounded as confident as he wished he was his fear would dissipate. Taking a breath, he waved a small goodbye to the cat, and stepped into the forest. 

He hadn’t gone twenty steps when he turned and saw the cat trailing behind him. 

“Go away,” Roman hissed, waving a hand at it. “It’s dangerous. You can’t follow me.”

If a cat could smirk, this one did. It blinked, long and slow, before huffing out of its nose and continuing forward, its tail dragging across his legs as it passed as if beckoning him forward. Roman put his hands on his hips and sighed. 

“You aren’t going to listen to me, are you?”

The cat swished its tail high in the air. Roman laughed, and hiked after it. They walked in silence up the hill toward the cave, and though he was thankful for the company, he was worried. Worried about how he and Dorian had left things the night before. Worried about something happening to the cat. 

He worried about a lot of things. 

They were halfway to the cave when the cat stopped in its tracks. Its ears swiveled sideways and its tail dropped, moving back and forth methodically as if it were thinking.

“What are you doing?”

The feline looked up at him intently, and chills ricocheted down Roman’s spinal cord and he almost felt dizzy. He put a hand to his head. _ What’s happening to me? _

The cat seemed to roll its eyes, then started into the trees, running parallel with the mountain and steadily away from the cave. Figuring he was more curious about following his new friend than he was afraid of making Dorian wait a bit, Roman followed. 

They were headed to the clearing where Roman had first seen Dorian’s human form. Where he’d gone with every intention of not returning. Still, he was interested to see what the cat had in store for him. Now that he didn’t have to worry about a giant demon snake hunting him down every night, he could let himself wander without fear. 

Or, at least, without as much of it. 

The cat stopped dead at the edge of the meadow, staring. It’s ears flattened against the back of its head and it crouched halfway to the ground. Roman stepped forward cautiously, peering through the trees. 

Dorian sat, in his enormous, serpentine form, in the middle of the clearing. His head sat on top of his coiled body, gently angled up at the night sky. Roman glanced up. The stars were breathtaking tonight. The cloudy streak of a galaxy striped the darkness, painting it with blues and deep violets. The entirety of the universe reflected in the enormous, slitted eyes gazing up into it.

The demon’s tongue flicked through the air, and his heavy plated body shifted. 

_ “I can smell you, little prince.” _His stare did not shift from the sky. 

“I wasn’t exactly trying to hide,” Roman said, stepping into the starlight. The cat followed so closely its shoulder brushed his calf. “Why are you here? I was going to go to the cave.”

_ “I despise human form,” _ he growled, “ _ That cave was small, and meant to facilitate our needs. The deal is done. There is no more need.” _Dorian’s tongue wagged through the air, more slowly this time. 

_ “What’s this?” _ he said, finally turning to look. _ “You’ve brought a friend. How quaint. Finally coming into our powers, are we?” _

“What are you talking about? It’s just a cat,” Roman said, hoping Dorian wasn’t in the mood for a midnight snack. 

He unraveled, stretching his body out to its full length. It nearly halved the entire meadow. 

_ “If that’s just a cat, then I’m a garden snake,” _ he chuckled. _ “Surely, you’ve sensed it. You may not know of your powers, but you can’t be _ that _ dense.” _

Roman looked down at the cat. It hadn’t fled, but rather moved _ between _Roman and the giant snake. He recalled the strange feelings he got around the animal. Sure, it was odd, but he was nowhere near understanding it, let alone explaining it. 

Dorian slithered forward, his body leaving divots in the grass wider than Roman’s arm was long. The cat trembled, but stood its ground. 

_ “You truly have no idea what it is that stands before you?” _

“Would I have a reason to lie to you?”

As exasperated as a giant serpent could appear, Dorian closed the distance between himself and the feline, the point of his nose coming only inches away from it. The cat hissed and arched its back. The sound grated inside Roman’s head and he felt sick. 

_ “Perhaps this will help.” _With a sound like enormous billows opening and closing, Dorian breathed through his nostrils over the cat. The creature yowled in protest as it was yanked into the air by some invisible force. Roman was blinded by a flash of golden light, and heard a loud thump as something far larger than a cat hit the ground. 

Roman blinked the spots from his eyes, and his heart stopped. 

“Roman, listen, I can explain. This is all one big misunderstanding, okay? Say something. Oh, please, just say something,” Virgil blathered, rising to his knees. 

“What is going on?” Roman breathed, shaking his head. “Is this… are you doing this?” he demanded, turning on Dorian. “Is this your idea of a sick joke?”

_ “I had no idea you knew the familiar in its human form. That does complicate things, doesn’t it?” _ he said, thoroughly enjoying himself. _ “This is the most interesting thing to happen since you offered to make that deal.” _

Virgil paled. “You haven’t made one yet, have you?”

Roman touched his forearm where the strange magical threads had sunk into his skin. “Yeah… but are you going to explain to me how you were just a cat? I’m so confused. What’s a familiar? Is this why you leave every summer? I… who _ are _ you?”

Virgil looked like Roman had slapped him. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Dorian rose up and Virgil donned a look of terror, gripping Roman’s shoulder and pulling him back. “We need to run.”

_ “And not just any familiar!” _ Dorian cackled. _ “I’d recognize those cowardly eyes anywhere. How is Ursula, these days? Enjoying my imprisonment?” _

Virgil looked as if he were going to be sick, his grip almost painful and his hand trembling with fear. “Stop it.”

“Virgil, what is he talking about?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing. Roman, come on—”

Dorian made an exploratory strike at them both. Roman, who had partly expected it after spending so much time fighting the thing, was ready to jump back and pulled Virgil along with him. His friend’s legs were leaden and slow to react. He stumbled back into Roman. 

Dorian laughed some more. _ “Oh, I wouldn’t say it’s _ nothing _ , Virgil. You were instrumental in giving the little prince his curse, were you not?” _

“Stop it!”

Roman felt a knot form in his stomach. “Is that true, Virgil?”

Virgil looked up at him miserably. “It’s more complicated than that, Roman. There’s no time, we need to _ go—” _

“So, you knew? This whole time?! And—and what, you helped Ursula give me the curse? It doesn’t make any sense, I left you in the truck when it happened. You weren’t anywhere near it.”

“Roman, I know you have a lot of questions, and I’ll answer them all later, but that _ thing _ has no intention of helping you! Now, we need to—”

_ “I’ve grown so bored since our deal,” _ Dorian interrupted, his voice low and dangerous. His eyes fixed on Virgil. His forked tongue tasted the air. _ “I haven’t had something new to chase in _ages…”

“Roman,” Virgil hissed. “Roman, we gotta go.”

He held his hands out between them. “Hey, no need for that, Dorian. Come on, we were making some real progress, right?” 

The demon ignored him, continuing forward.

Roman glanced at Virgil, careful not to take his eyes off Dorian for more than a few moments. “Virge, listen to me. Stay close to me. I’ve dealt with him for over a year, I can keep you safe.” 

Virgil’s chest rattled with fear, and his hand left Roman’s shoulder. He stared at Dorian, eyes wide. Roman doubted he could even hear him anymore. 

“Dorian. Stop it. He has no part in this,” Roman said, changing tactics. A well of helplessness sprung up within him. He was losing his hold on both of them. 

_ “I have an idea for a new game, little prince,” _ he hissed, his body tensing, ready to spring forward. _ “I hunt the traitorous familiar, and you try to stop me. Ready?” _

“Virgil! Run!”

“Roman, I’m not—”

_ “Go!” _

Quick as a whip, Dorian struck around Roman. Virgil disappeared, and the demon crashed into a tree. 

A black cat streaked through the grass and into the forest at top speed, ears flat against its head. Dorian laughed wildly and began his pursuit.

* * *

The alleys here in Wakeby weren't really what Patton would consider an alley. They were clean, if not a little dusty, with the muted smell of trash well-kept in the dumpsters lining the quaint little buildings. The most he'd seen all night was a black cat streaking down the street, perfectly healthy and unharmed. It was quiet. He could hear the crickets from the forest not to far away.

Nothing like what Patton was used to; the puddles of water mixed with what he told himself was mud, the discarded needles, the sounds of teenagers tying cats' tails in knots or setting them on fire. 

Memories he hadn't thought about since he'd been adopted. Since he'd donned this happy, ever-joyful persona for the sake of his saint of an adoptive mother who deserved better than the street kid she'd roped herself into caring for. 

He remembered. His friend. The rusted tub. 

Pink water. 

Sirens. 

Shaking hands and social workers...


	10. the darkness around us is deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, Patton's mom disappeared...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: child abuse, kidnapping, implied sexual assault, homelessness, violence, suicide, graphic imagery, drugs and drug-related imagery
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from "A Ritual to Read to Each Other" by William E. Strafford.

Kilvin, Pennsylvania

Age: 7

Patton stood on his tiptoes to reach the automatic sink faucet in the gas station bathroom. He wasn’t quite tall enough yet, and couldn’t reach the soap. Hopefully, washing longer would make up for it. Patton pulled the paper towels from the dispenser, dried his hands, and pushed the door open. 

The gas station smelled like floor cleaner and slushies. The lights were painfully bright, and the clerk at the front desk popped some gum. Quickly walking the perimeter of the store, Patton felt his stomach drop. He was the only one in the store. Where was his mom?

_ Calm down, _ he thought to himself. _ She’s probably just in the bathroom, too. _

Patton sat carefully against the wall next to the women’s restroom door. A minute passed.

Ten minutes passed.

Several other women who were blatantly _ not _ his mother came in and out, but his mom was nowhere to be seen. 

Unable to wait any longer, he raced to the front of the station, searching the parking lot outside for the familiar black sedan. Its spot was empty, small spots of dried motor oil and flattened grocery bags were all that remained. 

Patton stood there for a long time, staring at the empty parking stall. She’d actually done it. He couldn’t believe she’d really meant it all those years. _ Why’d I have to end up with a freak like you for a son? You’re nothing but trouble, you know that don’t you? Why don’t you run away already? I should drop you off somewhere and not look back. That’s what my mother said. I should have listened to her. _

Patton guessed he should have listened to _ his _ mother as well. 

He hung around until the clerk asked him what he was doing, and where his parents were. Scared, he left. The evening rush-hour traffic had just started. Horns honked, teenagers screamed and laughed at each other, and bars just began to fill with people. 

Patton walked up the hill, turned left, then left again. He had nowhere to go. They had been on a roadtrip—or so his mother had informed him. His hometown was impossibly far away for a seven-year-old with no way of getting home. Not that he’d find much help there. Their neighbors hated them, and his mother didn’t have any family that Patton would willingly go to for help. 

Evening turned to dusk, and dusk into night. It was dark, cold, and Patton was still alone. No one had approached him, asking if he was okay. He’d picked a street and followed it as far as it would go, and now found himself quite a ways out of the city, alone on the side of a tree-lined highway. 

There was nothing to do but walk. Sitting was unproductive, especially here. Sleeping in the woods was not something Patton was looking forward to, so he didn’t. 

After what seemed hours of walking and making no progress, a van pulled over in front of him. 

Patton’s heart slammed against his ribcage. He froze. What was he supposed to do? Were they going to help him? He couldn’t be sure. 

The door on the side of the van slid open with a bang and a man got out. He was tall, with a big belly and a stained white shirt that Patton was glad he was far away from. 

“What’re you doing out here by yourself, kid?”

Patton’s voice wasn’t working. The man looked scary. He glanced to the trees. He didn’t want to run into them. He’d get lost. Out here, he had a path to follow, at least. 

“D’you need help? I can give you a ride.”

“N—no,” Patton managed, holding his hands close to his chest and stepping back. The man stepped forward. 

“I can’t just leave you out here, kid. I have some food inside, if you want it.”

“No thanks,” Patton breathed. His lungs weren’t working right and he was getting all shaky. 

“Aw, come on,” the man drawled, taking several more steps forward. “Where are you headed? I can give you a lift!”

“I—ah!” Patton stumbled over something as he moved backwards, falling to the ground. The man moved faster than his size would lead one to think and grabbed him around the arm, pulling him up. 

“Let go!”

“Shut up, and get in the car,” he growled, dragging Patton toward the van. The ground at the side of the highway was nothing more than dirt and gravel. Patton didn’t stand a chance. 

Cars whizzed past on the highway. No one stopped. No one noticed. 

The man tossed Patton into the van, his shins clipping the running boards. Other, unseen hands grabbed him once inside, pulling him in, covering his mouth, holding his arms. A cloth blindfold was tied tight against his eyes before he could make out his other attackers, and his arms were tied behind his back. They smelled like sweet, rotting fruit and smoke. 

Patton screamed and kicked, but more out of fear than anything else. He was in too much shock to actually fight back. 

Someone in the driver’s seat shouted something at them, revved the engine, and they were off. 

Patton screamed and cried from the hold of the unseen hands. 

Cars whizzed past on the highway. 

No one stopped. 

No one noticed. 

* * *

Archmouth, Massachusetts

Age: 12

Patton lay in a heap on the damp concrete next to a dumpster, cheek resting against a soggy pile of what used to be a cardboard box. He panted heavily through his mouth, blood dribbling from his lips and lines of fire making themselves painfully known along his ribs every time he breathed. The right side of his face was throbbing, and he couldn't open his eye. 

The muffled clangs of someone clambering down a fire escape sounded above him, but Patton was too exhausted to care. A pair of boots dropped to the ground in front of his face and he grinned, though painful it was. 

"Merri," he breathed, closing his one working eye in relief. 

"Geez, what'd I tell you would happen if you went slinking around Billie's territory again?" Merri sighed, squatting. She hung her head to one side so she could meet his eye. "At least tell me it wasn't for nothing."

"It's in my pocket," Patton coughed. 

Merri's lips split over a line of slightly crooked teeth. "You're a sneaky one, I'll give you that. Come on, I'll help you up." She took Patton's limp hand in hers and pulled his entire arm over her shoulder.

The journey home was a long, painful one, but Patton didn’t mind. He’d gotten what he’d wanted. Climbing up to the loft where they were squatting took a little longer than normal, and Merri didn’t let him start to explain himself until she’d sat him down and pulled out her medical kit. 

The stitches sucked, to say the least. Merri wasn’t the best at sutures— at least compared to Patton, but he couldn’t reach the injuries well enough to do them himself. She had to restart a few times, but in the end, they held. 

“All right,” Merri said, wiping her hands with a wet wipe. “Show me.”

Patton grinned, pulling the flashdrive out of his pocket. “I’ll leave it in the police chief’s mailbox in the morning. This’ll give them enough to put Billie away for life.”

“What about that reward money? You’ll make sure she knows it was us that gave them the information, right?”

“Us?” he laughed, taking it back from her. “Who was it that risked their life to get this information?”

Merri cocked an eyebrow, “Yeah, and who’s gonna be put in the system the second he walks into a police station to collect said reward?”

“You’ve got me there.”

“Get some sleep, kid. You’re gonna need it.”

* * *

_ Patton and Merri walked down the street, laughing and fighting over the single ice cream cone they’d been able to afford from a street vendor. A car honked, and he looked up. A van rolled down the street. Several lanes of cars separated them, but Patton’s eyes found it immediately. The man driving didn’t look at him. He hadn’t even been the one that honked. _

_ But Patton knew. He _ knew _ that van. _

_ Merri cried out in protest when Patton dropped their ice cream, but he couldn’t hear what she said. _

_ He turned, and he ran. _

Patton gasped, jerking awake. Pain radiated from every part of his body and his stitches pulled tight. He covered his mouth, not wanting to wake Merri as tears streamed down the sides of his head and into his hair. He cried because he knew he couldn’t avoid it. He never could. Anything he dreamed happened, no matter how hard he tried to avoid it. 

Granted, most times, he didn’t dream about anything noteworthy: a passing remark, walking down a certain street, someone he would see during the day. Usually, he didn’t care. Usually, he could almost forget that he was a freak. 

Patton bit his fist, taking short, shaking breaths. He hadn’t thought about that time of his life in years. Merri had found him after the first two months, helped him escape and learn to live on the street. She taught him everything he knew: how to talk his way out of any situation, what streets were dead ends and which ones were easier to lose pursuers on, which restaurants threw out the best food. 

Patton couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes again.

* * *

Archmouth, Massachusetts

Age: 13

Patton pushed the door of the dilapidated house open, covering his nose with his arm. It smelled like piss and vomit. Then again, most drug dens did. He stepped over several unconscious people, weaving between the ripped up couch cushions, stacks of mail, and piles of dirty clothes. 

“Merri?!” he called, coughing. A few voices moaned in response, but he didn’t recognize any of them. Patton entered the kitchen and searched the room for his friend. A girl, barely older than him, sat in the empty space where a dishwasher was supposed to be, wild eyed and muttering to herself. Everyone was hooked on something, nowadays. Even the kids. 

He stepped past the counter, and nearly jumped up a wall when a hand closed weakly around his ankle. Looking down, he found Merri lying on the floor, legs tangled in a barstool. 

“Oh, Merri,” he sighed, squatting down. “What did you do?”

“What are you doing here?” she managed. She sounded like she hadn’t had a drink of water in days. “Didn’t I tell you to scram?”

Patton’s heart clenched. “I’m not letting you do this to yourself, Merri. Come, on. Let’s go.”

She slapped his hand away and curled in on herself, whimpering like a child. Billie had escaped custody last month. Merri had been the one to turn in the evidence against him. Merri’s aunt was the one who paid the price. 

Patton had found Merri in places like these for the past couple weeks. She’d had problems with drugs in the past, but never as bad as this. 

“Who are you?” a voice droned. 

Patton looked up. A tall, gangly man with a grimy face stood in the kitchen doorway, looking only a little high. A dealer, most likely. 

“She’s my friend.”

“A kid like you shouldn’t be here… ‘less you wanna buy something,” he said with a grin. 

Patton swallowed, standing. “Yeah, well she’s the police chief’s niece. If I don’t get her out of here and cleaned up by eight, you’ll have cops crawling through this place before sunup,” he lied with ease. Merri had taught him well. 

The man leaned forward, and he could smell his horrid breath. “I’d believe you, kid,” he said, pushing off the doorframe and stepping forward. He reached behind the counter. “‘Cept I’d know Merri if she had a bag over her head. She ain’t no police chief’s niece. You, on the other hand,” he brought his hand up, now holding a metal bat, “I know what you are. You’re bad for business.”

Patton’s hand flew to his knife, but he didn’t take it out. There wasn’t much he’d be able to do against a bat, and in these close quarters, he’d be lucky if he didn’t end up stabbing himself. 

“I can’t leave her,” he pleaded, hoping to appeal to the man in some way. 

He cracked the bat against the counter, screaming, “Get outta here!”

Patton wished he hadn’t, but he ran. He bolted out the open screen door and over the fence like a scared rabbit, not even looking over his shoulder for Merri.

* * *

Merri didn’t come back for several more days. When she did, she didn’t say anything. She didn’t speak, and would lay around all day, doing nothing. Patton wanted to help, but he had to spend most of his time scrounging for food or money to support the two of them. 

Common sense told him to abandon her, but everytime the thought crossed his mind, he pictured himself. Seven years old, alone at a gas station. 

He wouldn’t do that to Merri. He couldn’t. 

Patton only found her stash because of his dreams. For the first time in his life, he was actually thankful for his freakish mutation. 

He threw them out. The spoons, the lighters, the needles, everything. Smashed to bits and burned in a metal barrel.

* * *

Patton didn’t remember much about what actually happened the day he found her. Or, at least, that’s what he told the shrinks that tried to get it out of him. It wasn’t a complete lie. Not really. Sure, he remembered the smell. The tang of iron in the air. The rusted tub. The pink water. 

Merri. 

The screaming. The police. The endless questions.

Who are you? Who was she? Where are your parents? Any living relatives?

He remembered the emotions more than anything else. That same grating, mocking voice that had berated him the night his mother abandoned him taunted in the back of his head:_ She wanted you gone. You didn’t listen, now look what happened. She did it because of you. _

Now, Patton lay on a cot in a holding cell because the officers didn’t know what to do with him, and didn’t trust him to wait until the social workers showed up.

* * *

Wakeby, Oklahoma

Age: 13

“This one’ll be different,” the social worker assured him over her shoulder as they drove through field after field of nothing but grain or corn or alfalfa. Patton hated it. He hated the wide open spaces with nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. 

He knew this one was different. Of course it was. He was being adopted. Before, it had only been foster care, and they both knew how all of those incidents went. He’d met the woman a few times, but never for very long. She was newly single—husband had died, he was pretty sure. She seemed nice enough, but if Patton knew anything, he knew that looks could be deceiving. They sure had in his previous homes. 

Soon enough, they pulled into a driveway and the social worker killed the ignition. 

“Here we are.”

The exchange was easy enough. A business transaction they both pretended actually meant something. Patton didn’t have much patience nowadays, and found the whole thing repugnant. 

Before he knew it, he was alone with the woman. His new mom. 

Patton wondered how long it would take for her to send him back.

* * *

“You don’t have to call me mom, unless you want to. Dot will do just fine,” she said, sitting him down on the couch. The house was big and empty, like it was meant to house a big family… but wasn’t. Patton didn’t say anything, still looking around and taking everything in. 

Dot fidgeted with her hands in her lap. 

“I know we haven’t actually gotten to know each other much yet, but I’m hoping that you’ll come to like it here.”

“It’s just you?”

She pressed her lips together. “Yep. Just… just me.”

Patton’s heart softened a bit. “I’m sorry.”

“Let me show you your room,” she said, standing. Patton followed her down the hall. 

“What do you do? Like, for a job?”

“Oh, me? I run a nursing home just down the street. You can come by and check it out later, if you want. I didn’t think you’d be too interested in something like that,” Dot said, opening a door at the end of the hall. “This is my room, right here, and the bathroom is over there—that’s just a linen closet…”

She continued on, but Patton wasn’t paying attention. His room was enormous! Not that he had much frame of reference. Maybe it was normal sized. 

It had a mattress that sat on a nice little frame—not on the floor! The walls were painted a calm, light blue, and thin white gossamer curtains hung at the window. There was a dresser with multiple drawers, and a lamp that turned on and off by tugging a little chain. He placed his hands in front of vents near the floor and could feel the warm air seeping through them. 

Patton looked up at Dot, but she was blurry. It took him a second to realize that he was crying. 

“Oh, kiddo, I’m sorry. Is it too much? I didn’t know if you’d like the color, or—”

“No,” Patton said thickly, wiping his face. “It’s perfect.”

* * *

Later that night.

Patton lay on his bed, on top of all of his blankets. He didn’t like the feeling of being weighed down and unable to move in case he needed to. He stared at the ceiling. 

Dot was amazing. She was kind, and nice, and thoughtful, and everything he’d ever imagined mothers should be like. He’d cried several times that day, over silly things like the ice machine, or the cat onesie Dot presented him with—for movie nights only!—or the fact that he was allowed to take a bath whenever he wanted. 

She deserved better than him. Better than a street-hardened urchin with a sharp tongue and a short temper. She deserved a well-behaved son who smiled and cracked jokes and made her happy. 

Leaving would break her heart. It wasn’t an option. 

So, Patton would become what she deserved. He’d do it for her. 

For his mom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so... so sorry.


	11. better by far to forget and smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patton and Logan make some dinner, and Roman plays a little game of deadly tag with a demon and a familiar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: injury, pain, graphic violence, unconsciousness, panic attacks
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from "Remember" by Christina Rossetti

Patton blinked. He’d zoned out, though he couldn’t tell how long. Long enough his limbs felt stiff and weighed down—similar to waking up from a nap. The world hadn’t so much as twitched in the time he’d sat there reminiscing. Wakeby was stagnant as a reflecting pool, but just murky enough for him to forget that the outside world existed, that his past had even happened. 

For a while, he’d worried about lying to everyone. To Dot… What if he couldn’t keep it up? What if they found out he wasn’t the happy-go-lucky guy everyone knew and loved? Those concerns hadn’t lasted. It had only been a facade for the first year or so. 

After that, the repression seemed to catch on. He really believed he was as happy as he pretended to be. When he thought about his childhood, he only pictured one with Dot. It was a strange sort of dual-memory. He knew that he was adopted, sure, but it was easy to forget. He and Dot looked similar enough, and if he really wanted to, he could pretend she’d raised him his whole life. 

Dot didn’t have many friends outside the nursing home, and the ones she did didn’t have good enough memories to wonder how she’d suddenly acquired a thirteen-year-old son. Patton lied and told people at school that he’d been homeschool up until now. 

No one knew but him and his mom, even now. It didn’t seem like an important detail. He was happy now. That’s all that mattered. 

The hard part came when his friends asked questions about his childhood, or wondered why they’d never seen a picture of him younger than when they’d first met. He’d have to thank Merri for his quick wit and talent for squirming out of difficult situations as easily as a fish through water… but then he was thinking about Merri, and that was an issue. 

Patton looked down at his watch. It was half-past midnight. He’d been gone for nearly _ five hours! _He hadn’t spent the whole time in the alley, of course—wandering absently around Wakeby for the better part of it, feeling twitchy and unsettled and sending polite smiles to those he passed that called greetings. He’d retreated to the alley to escape anymore similar encounters, but he hadn’t even realized… 

Reaching behind himself, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He’d set it to silent when he’d left the house. Five missed calls. The first from Roman, three more from Logan, and one final one from Virgil. Several more texts accompanied the missed calls, asking where he was and if he needed help. 

Guilt rising in his throat like bile, Patton typed out a quick text. 

_ I’m okay. On my way home now. Sorry for making you all worry. _

He hit send and shoved the device into his pocket, still on silent. He’d deal with the collective worry-induced wrath of his friends once he was home.

* * *

Patton hadn’t gone three steps into the house when Logan came sprinting down the hall. His face was hard with worry and concern. Patton startled, memories and instincts of his old self still fresh in his mind. 

Logan stopped an appropriate distance away, but the movement was halting, like he’d restrained himself. 

“Are you… well?” he asked. 

“Um…” Patton’s voice wavered. He swallowed and glanced around. He hadn’t realized how close to the brink of tears he’d been, but he was so tired, there wasn’t much he could do about it at this point. 

“Yeah,” he said, his voice breaking pathetically. “I’m okay.” Tears spilled over and down his cheeks. His breath hitched in his chest. Logan’s expression grew panicked, and Patton didn’t blame him. He’d never lost it like this in front of any of them. 

“Patton, I don’t—oh, no. Can you—what do you need? Why is this so much easier with Vir—”

“It’s okay! I’m fine, you don’t have to do anything.” Patton said desperately, but he didn’t stop crying. _ Why couldn’t he pull himself together? _ His hands were all shaky and his breath came harder in his chest. He wished Dot were here. 

He wanted his _ mom, _and he hated himself for it. Here he was, twenty-one years old, and still crying for his mother. 

“You are objectively_ not fine, _ Patton. What can I do? What will help?” Logan said. He placed a hand on Patton’s shoulder, and that was it. He couldn’t resist anymore.

He fell against Logan’s chest, clutching his shirt in his fists and sobbing. Logan didn’t hesitate, wrapping him in his arms and resting his cheek against Patton’s hair. 

“What’s going on, Patton? Can you tell me what happened?” Logan asked softly, but it only made Patton cry harder. _ His life _ happened, that’s what. His whole life he’d been a failure, and even now he was failing at being the person he wished he was. 

Logan tightened the hug, like he was scared Patton would disappear if he let go. The pressure was nice, actually, and Patton found himself relaxing into it, the tension bleeding out of him.

Soon, he was reduced to a sniffling mess, feeling exhausted and raw and scraped completely hollow. He calmed down somewhat, his breathing slowing. 

Logan let him go, and Patton had to bite his tongue to keep from telling him not to. It felt so good to be held. To feel protected and safe. 

“Please refrain from wandering off like that again,” Logan said not unkindly, his eyes softening. “Or, at least, answer your phone and let us know that you are unharmed.” 

“Sorry, Lo.”

“It was a simple request for future incidents. You do not need to apologize.” Logan placed a steady hand on Patton’s shoulder and managed to convey just as much emotion into as any bone-crushing hug. 

He was suddenly reminded of his dreams. 

“Where’s Roman?” 

He waited a moment before answering. “Visiting his father.” 

“What?” Patton breathed. “Why?”

Logan shrugged, though Patton could tell he was far more concerned than he was letting on. “He said he was going to battle some of his demons. He should be fine.”

“Should be?” Patton wondered if _ that _ was what Roman had been so upset about today. 

“That was a poor choice of wording. He assured me that he would be fine, and I believe him.”

_ That’s a lie _, Patton thought to himself, but didn’t call Logan out. If anyone could spot a lie, it was Patton. He did it enough, he ought to. Right?

“Okay,” he conceded. “What about Virgil? Is he… doing alright? Roman sort of told me what happened earlier, but…”

Logan ran his hands down his face, now unapologetically frustrated. “He went after Roman.”

“He just left? Should we go too? What if they need help?”

“I assure you,” Logan said wearily, “That our interference will only cause them strife. It would be better if we let them handle it on their own.” He said the words as if trying to convince himself of them. 

Patton wiped his face and took a breath. “Have you eaten anything?”

“What?”

“I left before I made dinner. Have you eaten anything?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Come help me make dinner,” Patton said, grabbing Logan’s hand and dragging him to the kitchen. Logan didn’t complain. 

It seemed they both needed distractions.

* * *

Roman sprinted through the dark forest, using his ears more than his eyes to keep tabs on where the giant demon was headed. His blood pounded in his ears and he unsheathed his dagger. 

Virgil was here. 

Virgil was here, and somehow Dorian knew him, and he was a _ cat. _

His mind had been racing with unanswered questions, but as soon as Dorian had struck, all unimportant things had left his mind. He’d gotten used to doing so after spending every night hunted. 

Except now, he wasn’t the one being hunted. Or even the hunter. He was the third party simply trying to keep his friend alive. But he was only human. He couldn’t hope to keep up with Dorian, especially on the ground. He could only hope that Virgil could outrun him long enough to survive. 

Fortunately, the cat—or, he guessed, _ Virgil _—was zagging through the trees, and circled back towards Roman. His ears were so flat against his head they might as well not have been there, and his pupils were blown wide. He ran past him, only a few yards to the right. Roman crouched, silently calculating the distance, then lunged, tackling Dorian. 

The serpent was moving so fast, he kept rocketing forward when Roman crashed into him, only slightly sideways now, rolling a few times. Roman tried to grab hold of him, but his arms couldn’t reach all the way around. All the wind knocked out of his lungs as he rolled with the demon. Lights popped in his eyes when he hit a tree. 

Dorian didn’t stop for even a second. His scales ripped through Roman’s sleeves and cut his palms raw as he wriggled free, too distracted by his new prey to give Roman a second glance. Roman cried out, his chest, arms, and hands now stripped of the first few layers of skin, leaving them pink and bleeding and looking like he’d skidded bare-skinned across asphalt. He wished, now more than ever, he’d continued wearing Logan’s leather armor. 

At least he’d had the common sense—or paranoia—to wear the amulet.

Gritting his teeth through the pain, Roman got to his feet and kept running. They weren’t too far ahead.

Virgil veered suddenly to the right and scrambled up a tree. 

_ “Virgil, NO!” _ Roman bellowed, out of breath. Dorian may be slower in trees, but Virgil had effectively blocked himself in. Unless he wanted to climb down _ toward _ the giant snake-demon, he’d be too high up to jump down without hurting himself. 

Dorian let out an excited growl that sounded altogether _ not _ human in the worst way possible, and began winding up the trunk after Virgil. 

Grunting and willing his legs to keep running, Roman tightened his grip on his knife, sprinted toward the tree, and leaped. 

He flew through the air for only a second, bracing himself as he slammed into Dorian and clung for dear life to the slick, scaly body. 

Dorian either didn’t notice, or didn’t care. 

Ignoring the protest of nearly every part of his body, Roman desperately trying to keep his hold as Dorian wound higher and higher up the tree. 

“Dorian! Stop it! Stop this!” he barked, but he received no reply. Virgil wobbled as he began to reach branches that were too thin to support his weight. He looked around frantically. He’d have to go back down the tree to even reach the adjacent pine, let alone jump to the ground, and that meant getting closer to the giant fanged mouth. 

Cursing in a way his father would have belted him for, Roman squeezed the serpentine body with his legs to keep balance as he placed the tip of his dagger at the edge of a palm-sized diamond-shaped scale, and slammed his other fist against the hilt. The blade slid under the golden plating, and, nearly losing his balance as branches slapped his face, popped the scale clean off.

Before Dorian could react, Roman plunged the dagger deep into the newly-exposed flesh. Blood as black and hot as tar sprayed Roman’s arms and face, setting his open wounds ablaze with pain. 

Dorian howled in pain, but before he could so much as snap in Roman’s direction, he lost his grip. The blood made the scales slick, and Roman fell. He tried to turn, to catch himself, but didn’t react fast enough. His back collided with a branch as thick as his thigh. Bones crunched inside of him. Roman hit the ground, but he barely felt it, his mind white with pain. His head swam and he wheezed into the dirt, unable to breathe. 

_ Don’t let Virgil die, _ he told himself. _ Don’t do it. You’ll never forgive yourself. _

He had to get the amulet off. Otherwise, he _ and _ Virgil were as good as dead. The thing was, the arm with the amulet was folded beneath him and growing numb. Roman was pretty sure he’d broken it. That and he couldn’t feel his legs. 

Virgil let out a heart wrenching yowl of helpless terror from up in the tree. 

Roman grit his teeth and threw his weight to the side over and over again until he flipped himself over onto his back. Moving quick with his one uninjured arm, he ripped the amulet from his arm. Cold, prickling magic surged through him. His legs spasmed and his nerves lit on fire. Roman gasped and nearly was sick when he felt his vertebrae pop back into place. His whole body itched unbearably.

Roman stared up at the canopy. He wouldn’t make it. The magic wouldn’t heal him fast enough to save Virgil. 

He could see the two of them high in the trees. 

Dorian was only seconds away. 

Virgil crouched as well as he could on the thin branch that dipped beneath his weight. 

Virgil leaped. 

He soared true, right toward the next tree. He was going to make it. 

Dorian’s pupils constricted paper thin. With his body still anchored around the pine, he lashed out, mouth stretching, fangs dripping. 

He clipped Virgil. Grazed him right across the ribs with a single fang. 

Roman surged to his feet, regardless of his still healing body and sprinted to catch Virgil as he was knocked out of the air. Roman could survive falling from that height, especially with an amulet, but Virgil? As a cat? Such a fall could kill him if he didn’t land on his feet. 

Virgil plummeted. 

Roman dove…

and caught him. He rolled to slow himself, cradling Virgil against his chest. Roman came to a stop, his hands shaking. Virgil was trembling, his tiny chest heaving and he panicked. He clawed Roman’s hands, still in fight or flight mode, until he dropped him. 

“Virgil, wait—” 

The cat stumbled this way and that, like he’d been spinning in circles, shaking his head and making confused, terrified sounds. 

It was the venom. It was starting to work through his system. In a body that small, it surely spread faster. 

Roman heard Dorian leave the tree, slithered toward them. He rounded on the demon. 

_ “What did you do?!” _

_ “What a shame,” _he sighed, looking over Roman’s shoulder at Virgil, who was now on the ground, twitching.

Roman panicked. He had to do something. Virgil was going to die, and it would be his fault…

“Turn him back, _ now!” _he demanded. 

_ “What? Why?” _

Roman stepped right up to the demon’s face, aware of the fact that the thing couldn’t kill him. His mind turned dark with anger. “Turn him human! Turn him back right now, or I swear I will make you wish you could die.”

Dorian met his gaze for a solid moment, before flicking his tongue and remarking, _ “The game’s over anyway…” _He slithered around Roman and breathed on Virgil as he had earlier. Another flash of golden light warmed Roman’s skin and suddenly Virgil—in his normal, human body—appeared. 

Unfortunately, the wound had grown with him. The gash wasn’t deep or bleeding too badly, and Roman was thankful for that, but it was as wide as his palm in places and stretched from his left shoulder down to his opposite hip. 

The venom was the real concern. 

Roman rushed to Virgil’s side, grabbing his hand. 

“Hey! Hey, Virge. Buddy, can you hear me? Look at me. Right here, yeah, like that. Good job. Okay, I’m going to go get the antidote, alright? You have to hold on for me, okay? _ Don’t fall asleep.” _

Virgil made a slow sound of acknowledgement, his eyelids drooping. Roman stood and rounded on Dorian, pointing a finger at the serpent’s snout. 

“You even _ breathe _ in his direction again and I’ll rip out your tongue and feed it to you myself,” he growled, then sprinted off in search of Silkweed. Roman had experienced the venom’s terrifying effects before. It slowly numbed your whole body, shutting down all of your muscles and nerves. It obviously hadn’t killed _ him _, but he’d been able to deduce the final effects. It stopped your heart. Or something of a similar nature. 

It didn’t take Roman long to find the plant. That same familiar feeling entered his mind the second he’d gone to find it. Nestled between two large tree roots, he grabbed fistfuls of the soft, velvety leaves and ran back as fast as he could. 

He skidded to a stop at Virgil’s side, falling to his knees in the damp dirt. He was still breathing but only just. His eyes were closed and his skin had gone clammy. 

“Virgil! Virgil, no, come on. Wake up! You have to chew these! _ Virgil!” _he cried, cupping his friend’s face in his hands. Frantically, he shoved a handful of the leaves into his own mouth and chewed them into a pulp. Roman spat the green mess into his hand, opened Virgil’s mouth, and pushed it inside. 

It was gross, sure, but if it saved Virgil’s life, he’d do it without hesitation. 

Everything was torturously silent. Nothing happened. 

Dorian slithered past, _ “I doubt this is the best time to bring such an issue up, but you have still yet to break your curse, little prince. I’d advise you to do so soon.” _

_ “Shut up!” _ Roman screamed at him. “This is _ your fault! _If he dies…”

_ “Yes, yes, I know, little prince.” _ He slunk away into the darkness. _ “I know.” _

Roman knew that the antidote took time to work. It had taken _ hours _ for himself to recover. He’d only survived because he’d stumbled into a good enough hiding spot before going completely numb. That’s where he’d found the Silkweed the first time. 

Desperately telling himself to be calm, Roman got up. He situated Virgil in a position that hopefully he was comfortable with, then set off to find where he’d thrown the amulet after ripping it free of his arm. 

It only took him a few seconds. 

He’d always been good at finding lost things. Ever since he’d been a kid. 

The string was broken, but Roman was able to tie it back together, and wrap it around his arm again. He wished it would help Virgil, but it only healed injuries that were inflicted while someone wore it, and then took it off. 

Without much else to do but wait, Roman sat with his back against a tree trunk and Virgil’s head in his lap. He ran his fingers through Virgil’s hair absently as he looked out at the forest.

It was soft. He must have showered not too long ago. 

Roman clasped his hand in Virgil’s, then tipped his head back against the tree, closing his eyes. 

And the crickets sang. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	12. once you say it out loud, it can't be undone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys finally talk to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for this chapter comes from "the fall" by half alive.

_ Patton’s throat constricted and his chest felt like someone had wrapped it in barbed wire. He knelt in the middle of a clearing, the tall grass tickling his arms. His eyes were blurry with tears. _

_ Virgil knelt across from him, his face limp with dread. Logan stood a few paces away, something shiny dangling from his clenched, trembling fist. He radiated anger. _

_ Roman lay asleep at his feet. _

_ No… his chest was still; his skin, usually golden tan and vibrant, was pale; his hand, clutched in Patton’s own, was cold and… _

_ And lifeless. _

Patton came suddenly awake. He looked around, gradually grounding himself and calming his breathing. Logan was sandwiched between him and the back of the couch, his mouth slightly open and his face pressed into the crook of Patton’s shoulder. 

They’d begun the night sitting side by side, watching animal documentaries and eating the pasta they’d made together. Now, the television had shut off after being inactive for too long, and their dishes sat empty on the coffee table.

Patton’s neck was stiff and his arm was going numb, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to move. His dream was a little more than disturbing—Roman was _ dead, _for crying out loud—but Logan’s slow puffs of breath hitting his neck did a good job distracting him. 

Logan’s forehead creased and his eyes, though closed, grew troubled. He made soft, whimpering noises of concern, turning his head into Patton’s shirt. 

“Looks like we’re both having bad dreams,” he muttered, leaning his head back on the arm of the couch and looking up at the ceiling. 

It was torture, lying here with Logan and not doing anything about it. He wished he could run his hands through his hair and kiss his forehead and lie huddled together—_ not _by accident but by choice.

He wished for a lot of things—not only with Logan, but with Roman and Virgil as well. They’d been so close ever since they were young, but never close enough for his liking. He wanted to take all their pain and make them feel wanted.

But he didn’t.

He wouldn’t cross that boundary for fear they’d feel some sort of obligation to make him happy.

As long as _ they _were happy.

But they weren’t. Logan was overstressed, Roman wouldn’t talk to him about whatever strange thing he was going through, and Virgil—

Logan jerked awake, inhaling sharply and clenching Patton’s shirt in his fist. He looked around, confused, then, upon seeing himself lying nearly on top of Patton, sat up quickly. 

He cleared his throat. “Apologies, Patton. It was not my intention to, er… fall asleep.”

“Don’t apologize, kiddo. I think we both needed a little cat nap.” He flipped up the hood of his jacket depicting a cat face and ears. 

Logan rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to chastise Patton’s choice of pun when his eyes fell on the window to their left, the morning light reflecting in his eyes. His face went slack with a look of fear.

“What time is it?”

Patton craned his head back to glance at the clock on the oven. “Seven-thirty. Wowie, we really zonked out, didn’t—“

Logan shot to his feet. “_ Roman?” _he called, flying up the stairs two at a time. Patton followed, a pit of nerves forming in the bottom of his gut.

“They’re not here. Roman and Virgil aren’t back yet.”

“I don’t know, Logan. We can’t assume the worst. They might’ve gotten held up—” 

“_ Patton, I—” _ Logan snapped, but stopped himself, pressing a fist against his mouth. He began again, “Patton, I can assure you, they are not. This is an incredibly complicated situation with an innumerable amount of unknown variables, and I know you must be confused. Believe me, I understand, but there’s just—Patton I’m sorry, I—I can’t—”

Patton rushed forward, cupping Logan’s face in his hands. “Hey, hey, take a breath, Lo. It’s gonna be okay, yeah?” he said, smiling though he felt as if he’d swallowed glass. Logan knew what was going on. So, did Virgil. Why did everyone know but him? 

But he _ did _know—kind of, anyway. Right? The dreams…

He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. “This wouldn’t happen to involve a, uh… giant… talking snake… would it?”

Patton felt Logan grow deathly still beneath his hands. 

“What did you say?”

Patton lowered his hands, suddenly self-conscious. He shook his head, “Sorry, it’s ridiculous, I know—”

“No! No, Patton, what did you—how did you know?” he breathed. 

Patton’s heart stopped in his chest. “I was right?” He tried to swallow past the lump in his throat but he couldn’t. The dreams were true. They always were. But what Roman was dealing with… it wasn’t possible. Was it?

Logan sat down hard on the stairs and put his face in his hands. Patton held out a tentative hand, recoiling a bit when Logan burst into a fit of hysterical laughter. 

“Logan?”

He looked up with eyes now red, pressing his hands against his lips and sniffing. “Patton, you have absolutely no idea how relieved I am right now. I’ve been _ carrying _ this for Roman on my own for months and I wanted to tell you so bad, but...” his voice broke. 

Patton felt everything inside him shatter and it took every ounce of self-control he had to keep from grabbing Logan’s face again, holding his hand, and kissing away all of his pain. 

He took a breath, putting on a strong smile. “I don’t know all the details, Lo, but we’re going to figure this out. Okay? Do you know where they are?”

Logan nodded, taking a breath. 

“I have a general idea.”

* * *

_ ...gil… _

_ Virgil…? _

_ What’s going on? Are you dead? _

Virgil’s eyes opened slowly. He squinted a little, some sort of bright light shining on his face. His head was _ pounding. _After a few moments, his eyes adjusted and… 

He was outside? Why was he…? Looking up, he found Roman asleep against a tree, his head lolling to the side, and Virgil’s head was _ in his lap. _

Virgil shot upright, ears burning. The quick movement sent his head spinning and the throbbing grew worse. He groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

_ Hello? Answer me, Virgil. _

Virgil stiffened. It was Ursula. No wonder his head felt like it had gone through a meat grinder.

_ What do you want? _ he thought back venomously.

He could practically sense her eye roll. _ Nothing. Our connection wavered a bit and I thought you were dead, or something. I was worried for my little minion. _

_ Why’d you… _ Virgil trailed off. They were in the forest. The memories of last night came rushing back, hitting him like a tidal wave. Terror ripped through him and he launched to his feet. His head felt like someone was chisling into it with a pickaxe, but he didn’t care. He turned in circles, scanning the trees for Dorian. 

They were alone. 

_ What happened? Did my champion figure you out yet? _ She laughed through their connection, a strangely melodic sound. _ Did he try to kill you or something? _

_ No, _ Virgil seethed. _ Go away. _He prayed she wouldn’t take his dismissal as a challenge. Virgil wasn’t sure he had the strength to resist her at the moment. 

_ I have better things to do anyway. Paco’s teaching me how to make sangria, ciao! _

Their connection faded. 

Roman stirred, and Virgil’s unease piqued. He’d have to explain everything now, wouldn’t he? Roman was going to hate him. Then he’d tell Logan and Patton and—and Virgil wasn’t sure if he could handle any _ one _ of them hating him. 

But he had to own up to what he’d done. It was time. 

“Roman, wake up,” Virgil said, softly shaking his shoulder. His friend blinked a few times, looking around. 

“Where are… wait are_ we still in the forest?!” _ he cried, shooting to his feet. He looked down at his arms and felt his face with growing horror, spattered head-to-toe with the tar-like blood, and groaned. 

“Uh, yeah. I’m guessing you fell asleep after…” Virgil paused, recalling as much of last night as he could. “Wait, how am I not dead? Dorian bit me. I should be dead right now.”

“I gave you the antidote, and—hold up, _ look at your chest!" _Roman blurted, rushing forward. Virgil looked down. His shirt was ripped almost completely open, revealing his chest. There was no wound. Not even a scar. 

"How...?"

Roman laughed, "Must be some of that 'power beyond description' Dorian's always going on about."

Virgil's stomach dropped. "Uh, yeah. About that. We probably need to talk. Right?"

Roman looked confused for only a few seconds. His face fell ever so slightly. "Yeah. We do, but not right now."

"What?"

Roman smiled a little guiltily, "I think we should wait until we're all together. I've got some things I need to tell them, too. Besides, Logan's going to murder me himself if we don't get home soon." He started walking, and Virgil followed, trying to decide whether he was relieved or _ more _ nervous. It seemed like Roman was in denial instead of actually being fine with the situation. 

"Do they know?"

"Logan does. Patton… I haven’t told him anything. I couldn’t bring myself to. You know how he gets. He’d want to fix everything, lose sleep over it, all that,” Roman said. Virgil could tell he was trying to sound unaffected. He wasn’t doing a very good job. 

Virgil followed Roman through the woods. He didn’t look like he was even paying attention to where he was going, and yet their course never wavered. A product of spending every night in these trees for over a year, now, Virgil surmised. Despite his confidence in his sense of direction, Virgil couldn't get over how unconcerned Roman was about trapaising around a forest that housed a considerably large demon serpent that, not six hours ago, had nearly killed them both. 

“Aren’t you worried?” he asked. 

Roman stepped over a fallen tree, considering for a moment. “About what?”

Virgil gestured to the emptiness of the woods. “I don’t know, a giant snake popping up out of nowhere and trying to kill us?”

He snorted. “Not particularly. He sleeps during the day.”

“How do you know that?”

“... I don’t,” he said slowly. “I mean, I haven’t ever _ seen _him during the day, but it isn’t like I spend a lot of time in the forest outside of when I have to. I just sort of figured he hid away somewhere and slept, seeing as we haven’t heard reports of a giant snake eating hikers or terrorizing campsites. When all of this started, I’d hide so deep in the forest I couldn’t find my way back out even after the curse ended. I didn’t find my way out until well past sunrise, and never once saw Dorian slithering around, so we should be safe.”

_ He sounds so used to it by now, _ Virgil thought miserably. 

A voice echoed faintly through the trees. It sounded quite a ways away, and Virgil couldn’t quite make out what they’d shouted. Roman instantly went still as a statue and Virgil nearly tripped bumping into him. 

“Did you hear that?” Roman whispered so softly Virgil almost didn’t hear it. 

“Uh, yeah, I heard it.”

“Just checking. Follow me. Watch where you put your feet,” he said, making his way toward a cluster of bushes. Virgil followed, nerves popping like firecrackers inside of him. They crouched behind the bush and waited. He couldn’t hear Roman breathing beside him despite his back definitely rising and falling. How was he so calm?

_ “Roman! Virgil!” _the voice called again, and Virgil outright gasped. Roman slapped a hand over Virgil’s mouth, his eyes hard, and dark, and markedly more wary than before. He held a finger to his lips as he slowly rose to his feet. 

_ Stay here, _Roman mouthed. 

Before Virgil could do anything more, Roman leaped up, grabbed a branch of the tree beside them, and hauled himself up it in less time than it took Virgil to hiss, “What are you doing?!” The trees were sparse enough, he _ might _be able to see who was coming, but it was definitely human. Right? Going by Roman’s reaction, it may not be. 

Was Dorian messing with them? But Roman had said that the horrid snake slept during the day… 

Luckily, Virgil didn’t have to wait long for his answer. 

“Logan! Patton! Over here!” Roman shouted and Virgil nearly had a heart attack. He dropped to the ground at Virgil’s side, a grin stretched across his face. “Come on. They’re not too far.”

“Are you su—” Virgil started, but Roman grabbed his hand and began running. Virgil nearly fell on his face several times trying to keep up. He was far more agile as a cat, that was for sure. Bipeds were so top-heavy it had taken him several days after he first discovered his human form to figure out the whole walking-thing. 

They didn’t have to run far—and Roman ran the _ whole way— _before Virgil spotted them. Logan, who looked so angry his face was red, and Patton, beaming with excitement at seeing his friends. 

Roman let go of Virgil’s hand and slowed to a stop, grabbing the back of his neck. “Now, Logan, don’t be—”

_ “Roman Nicholas Kingsley what were you thinking?!” _Logan spat, fuming. Virgil noticed Roman looked considerably more scared of the elementary school teacher before him than the demon he’d fought last night. Before Roman could say anything more in his defense, however, Logan wrapped him in a hug so tight Virgil thought he’d break his ribs. 

“What’s all over you?” Patton asked.

“That’d be demon blood, Padre,” Roman laughed through Logan’s embrace, having the decency to look at least a little bit chastised. Patton paled. “Demon blood that Logan is going to have a hay day getting out of his shirt.”

“Shut up,” Logan muttered, releasing him. Dark splotches indeed adorned his button up, but he didn’t seem to care. 

“Never thought I’d say a sentence like that in the light of day,” Roman chuckled. 

Logan rounded on Virgil. “And _ you! _ You think you can pull a stunt like this after what I went through to _ save you _yesterday?”

Patton and Roman exchanged looks, falling silent. Virgil shrunk back. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Logan sighed, stepping toward him. Virgil flinched, but was met with a warm embrace instead. 

“One of these days, you three will give me a heart attack,” he muttered. 

Roman laughed forcibly. “Wow, Specs, never thought I’d see the day you’d be handing out hugs.”

Logan released Virgil, who didn’t feel any less nervous, and straightened his tie. 

“We,” he said, looking pointedly at everyone, “have a lot to talk about.”

* * *

“Who wants to go first?” Logan asked after they’d all sat through several minutes of awkward silence in the living room. 

Virgil wrung his hands, taking a few shallow breaths before saying, “I should start. This is my fault, anyway.”

Logan sighed, “Virgil, whatever it is, I’m sure—”

“I’m not exaggerating, Logan,” he said, not meeting any of their eyes. “I’ll tell my story, then if… if you want me to leave I—I’ll go, but just let me get it all out, okay?”

“Kiddo, we’d never ask you to leave.” Patton reached toward him, but Virgil recoiled ever so slightly. Logan glanced at Roman, who had grown uncharacteristically quiet the closer they’d drawn to their house. Now, he just stared at his hands and picked at the sticky blood spots he still hadn’t washed off. 

Virgil took a breath, then began. “I’m not human.” 

Patton made a noise of confusion and Logan’s brow knit together. “What do you mean?” he asked. “You’re sitting right there; I can see that you are.”

“No—I mean, I can _ take _the form of a human if I want to, but I wasn’t born a human. I was born a cat.”

“A cat,” Logan repeated skeptically and looked around. Patton seemed as confused as he was, and Roman had grown still as he listened. 

“I know it sounds weird, but trust me, that isn’t the worst of it. There are parts of your world that you couldn’t even imagine existing, so just… trust me, okay? I won’t lie to you.”

“Promise?” Roman muttered softly and Virgil looked like he’d been punched. 

Patton looked between them with concern. “Keep going, bud. We’ll stop interrupting.”

Virgil swallowed. “I’m not _ just _ a cat. I mean, that’s kinda obvious. Cats don’t normally turn into people, but, uh—I’m what you’d call a familiar. It means I’m bonded to a witch—we can communicate telepathically, and she can, uh, see through my eyes and stuff like that.”

A muscle in Roman’s jaw tightened. “So what, you’ve been spying on us, then?”

Virgil’s hands shook. “Not anymore, but initially… yeah. She—I wasn’t trying to—” he said, his voice wavering. He stopped, fidgeting endlessly with his jacket sleeves. “It's complicated, I know, but if you just let me explain, it’ll all make sense—”

“Then will you just _ get on with it?” _ Roman snapped. 

“Roman, please,” Logan sighed. “We’re all trying to figure out what’s going on together.”

Roman chewed on the inside of his cheek deliberately, folding his arms and falling silent once more. Logan looked again to Virgil, who appeared more and more like he was about to bolt. 

“Keep going, Virgil,” he prompted softly. 

He inhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a moment before continuing. “I’m roughly four hundred years old. I’m not entirely sure, but somewhere around there. You stop counting after a while. As a familiar, I’m able to control the age of my human form to meet my needs, which is how I was able to attend school with you all.” Virgil paused and met all their eyes briefly. Logan was having a hard time wrapping his mind around all of this, and frankly, if he hadn’t seen whatever sort of magic Virgil had been attempting yesterday, he would have thought his roommate delusional. 

To further solidify his claim, Virgil stood and said, _ “Magic makes the feline form, return me now as was I born.” _

Logan blinked. Virgil disappeared, clothes and all, replaced by an ordinary-looking black cat. 

Patton made an inarticulate noise and squealed, “Virgil, you’re adorable!”

Before Logan’s brain could register what had actually happened before his eyes, a thirteen-year-old version of Virgil appeared in place of the cat. There hadn’t been any phrase chanted aloud this time, but Logan figured the process had been the same. It was mind-boggling, seeing Virgil as a child, no different from when they’d all been that age.

Another phrase of rhymed trochaic trimeter and Virgil was back to normal. Up until yesterday, Logan had only ever heard about all of this magic stuff. He only saw Roman in the aftermath of his battles. When he saved Virgil, he’d been considerably distracted from taking in all of the abnormalities around him. Now, it had just _ happened _. Right there. In plain view. 

Virgil lowered back into his seat, his fear replaced with a sort of sad, apathetic acceptance. He didn’t tremble as he spoke, “In the beginning, Ursula sent me out to find Roman after his mom died. I found him, but the longer I spent with you guys, I started actually liking you. I’d never had real friends before. Halfway through sophomore year, I told Ursula to shove it. I wasn’t going to be her puppet anymore.”

“That’s when your headaches started,” Logan muttered, his mind churning as he worked out the timeline like a puzzle. 

“Yeah. That happens whenever I have to resist our connection.” 

Logan looked to Roman. Virgil had mentioned his mother’s death, but his eyes had only grown slightly sadder than before. Quite the tempered reaction, in Logan’s opinion, but he still had several more questions he needed answered. 

“So, how are you related to Roman’s curse?”

“Curse?” Patton echoed, looking Roman over with a pained expression. Roman didn’t look up. 

“Roman can explain it better than I can,” Virgil admitted, shoulders hunching. “But, I was the one who took him to Ursula in the first place.”

“What happened to not being her puppet?” Roman said. 

Virgil folded his arms, balling his jacket sleeves in his fists. “Every summer, Ursula made me return to her. She’d attack my mind relentlessly until I did, so it wasn’t much of a choice. She… managed to convince me otherwise, at least for the first few months I was back.” He looked to Logan and Patton. “Do you remember when Roman and I were in that accident on the highway last year?”

Logan nodded. Roman’s shoulder’s tensed. 

“It didn’t happen like you remember, Roman. Ursula wanted me to continue keeping tabs on you even after the curse was in place and... I was scared of you hating me. I erased your memory of what happened and replaced it so I wasn’t part of any of it.”

“You messed with my head?” Roman growled, finally looking up and meeting Virgil’s eye. “You cared more about saving your own skin than keeping me from the literal hell I’ve been living for a year?” He didn’t shout, but he didn’t really have to. Logan had only ever witnessed Roman’s “quiet anger”, as he dubbed it, once before—when his father had made Patton cry during his last attempt to establish any sort of relationship years ago. 

It was terrifying. 

“Yes, I did,” Virgil said, staring into nothing, his face slack with heartache, “and I regret it every single day. I know I’m a coward and a sad excuse for a friend.”

“Vir—” Patton started.

“I am, Patt,” Virgil cut him off. “I’m not going to pretend that I’m a better person than I am.”

Roman pressed his lips into a thin line, inhaling slowly. “Can you bring my memories back?”

Virgil nodded, then reached out and placed his hand across Roman’s forehead. _ “Mind and matter fuse and mend, let the memory’s slumber end.” _

Roman sucked in a sharp breath, going rigid as a board for a moment. As quickly as it had happened, it ended. Roman pulled away, his eyebrows drawn together in what Logan could only assume was a mixture of confusion and frustration. 

Virgil looked markedly paler, almost sickly. He wiped his face with a trembling hand. 

“Virgil? Are you okay?”

“I’ll be good in a few minutes,” he said, taking a breath. “There was a, uh, _ incident _ a few hundred years ago that left me magically broken.”

“Broken?” Logan asked. 

Virgil smiled, though it looked more like a grimace. “Plainly speaking, yes. When magical beings experience really traumatic events, sometimes their powers can just… disappear. It took Ursula years to finally take me to another witch who could make me a talisman that would help me use magic again. A few days ago, someone stole it. That’s why the spell yesterday almost killed me.”

Patton clasped his hands in his lap, taking this far better than Logan would have thought. He still wanted to ask about how Patton had found out about Roman’s situation. 

“Why did you try to do it, if you didn’t know it would work?” Patton asked. 

“I decided to stop running away from my problems and actually try to help Roman. I was trying to locate the person who stole my talisman. When that failed, I figured I’d at least try and give Dorian a run for his money, but I ended up making things worse.” He opened his eyes, looking at them all in turn, indescribably miserable. He spread his hands dejectedly. “That’s all of it.”

Once again, they sat in silence, though this time it wasn’t nearly as awkward as it was a silence of utter disbelief. 

Patton sniffed. “Okay,” he said shakily, “Does someone want to explain what this curse is to me?”

Roman nodded, then stood and walked away without a word. Logan was about to grab his arm and tell him that if they didn’t get everything out right now, it never would, but Roman stopped him with a look. A look that both reassured him that he was coming back and conveyed such complete exhaustion with life Logan physically recoiled. 

Patton gave Logan a questioning look, and Logan tried to put on a comforting smile, but he was pretty sure all that happened was a quick twitch of the sides of his mouth. 

Roman returned a moment later, a tri-folded piece of paper in his hands. A thumbprint of dried blood stained the paper where a seal would usually go. 

“The witch Ursula gave me this,” Roman started, staring at it, “the night she cursed me. A description of the curse and instructions on how to fulfill it, and this amulet.” He reached inside the neck of his shirt and, after a moment of fiddling, pulled out the ruby pendant. “Every night, I have to go to the forest outside town and battle a demon. This amulet heals any injury or fatigue I sustain, as long as I’m wearing it. It’s been going on for a little over a year now.”

Logan glanced at Patton. He looked like Roman had ripped his heart out of his chest, but he didn’t look surprised. Roman went on to explain his heritage, this so-called Witch’s Inheritance… and what happened to his mother. 

He finished softly, his voice simply going out. 

“So, that’s it?” he asked, looking like he needed to sleep for a week straight. “It’s all out in the open, now? No more secrets?”

“Ah, not quite,” Patton said, lifting a finger. 

Logan leaned back in his chair. “I’ve been _ wondering _how you figured out Roman’s predicament without any of us telling you.” 

Roman choked. “You _ knew?” _

Patton flushed, holding up his hands. “Not until very recently, and I didn’t know a lot of the details, but yes. So, I… uh,” he said, suddenly looking as nervous as Virgil had been when this whole conversation started. Patton didn’t speak for a moment, his brow creasing as if trying to work something out in his head. 

“Is something wrong, Patton?” Logan asked.

He swallowed. “No, it’s just… the last person who knew about…_ me _… left and—and didn’t come back, so...” He took a rattling breath, but put on a smile, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut as if trying to get rid of whatever was filling his head. 

“Patton, we,” Logan said, looking pointedly at both Roman and Virgil, “would never abandon you, regardless of whatever it is you need to tell us. In fact,” he said, sitting up straighter and addressing them all, “_ No one _ is going to be abandoning _ anyone _ today. If you all think that I’m going to sit back and let this family fall apart—because that is _ what we are _—you are gravely mistaken. I shall be the metaphorical duct tape, if you will. A figurative repair man, or a, uh…” he paused, racking his brain for some other analogy he could use to adequately describe his feelings at the moment. 

Roman put a hand on his arm, a soft smile on his lips. “We get it, teach. None of us are going anywhere any time soon.” He met Virgil’s gaze and Logan could sense some sort of silent exchange between them. 

Patton’s shoulders loosened, and a genuine smile of gratitude graced his face. He took a breath. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve had these dreams. I… see things that haven’t happened yet. Sometimes I’m in them, sometimes I see things happening to other people, like Roman. I saw you being chased by that horrible monster, and—and I didn’t believe it at first, but then I heard you and Logan talking about some sort of compromise downstairs.”

Roman ran a hand down his face. “And here I was thinking I was subtle.”

“You _ were _rather excited about your agreement with the serpent,” Logan said. 

Virgil sighed, “So, you’re a sibyl, then?”

“What?” Patton breathed.

Roman through his hands up. “Is no one in this house normal aside from Logan?”

He held up a hand, “The concept of normality is quite subjective, I’ll have you know—”

“What’s a sibyl?” Patton asked desperately, grabbing Virgil’s sleeve. He looked on the verge of either relief or horror. 

Logan interjected, unable to constrain himself, “It’s actually quite fascinating. In ancient Greece, women who were believed to receive prophecies and messages from the gods were called sibyls or oracles.”

Roman perked up, “Oh! So, Patton’s like the Oracle of Daphne!”

“It’s the Oracle of Delphi,” Virgil corrected—Logan couldn’t help the flutter of pride that skipped through his chest— “and Patton’s similar, but not exactly the same. He’s probably just descended from an oracle, or something. Did either of your parents have these abilities?”

They all looked at Patton, who suddenly appeared far less intrigued by the conversation. 

“I’m not sure.”

Roman scoffed, “That would explain how your mom always knew when I tried to get you to skip class.”

“We should consult with your mother Patton, she may have some answers or at least a way to help Roman with finding Ursu—”

“She isn’t like me,” Patton said.

“Are you sure? I mean, you were able to hide this ability from us for years. I don’t doubt your relationship, Patton, but I’m merely trying to explore every avenue, here,” Logan said gently. 

Patton shook his head. “No, I mean, I _ know _ that she isn’t because—well, she isn’t my biological mother.”

The room went silent for a beat. 

Roman’s eyebrows came together in confusion. “Wait, you’re adopted? How did I not know that? Did you guys know that?”

Patton’s smile stretched as he nodded. “Yep, so now that that’s out of the way, we can move on. Right? Besides, I had a pretty spooky dream last night about all of us, except Roman was dead and we were in the forest, and—”

Virgil shot to his feet. “Roman was _ dead?!” _

“Chill, Hot Topic, I think I know what he means,” Roman said. 

Virgil sat slowly, muttering, “What’s Hot Topic?” to himself as he did. 

Roman held up the amulet still held in his fist. 

“We’ve got a little something to take care of tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: There are parallels between the spells that took and returned Roman's memory.


	13. gone far away into the silent land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman breaks a curse and his friends' hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mild graphic imagery, death/dying
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from "Remember" by Christina Rossetti.

“Patton, really, I’m fine. We don’t have much longer before—”

“Nonsense!” Patton said, brandishing a serving spoon. “If we’re going to be out all night running through the forest, we better not be hungry while we’re doing it!”

Roman sighed, laughing a little as he did. He knew that Patton was freaking out inside. They all were. 

Roman was going to die tonight. 

And come back—hopefully. If Patton’s dream was anything to go off of, Logan had already removed the amulet and Roman hadn’t woken up. Upon hearing this, Logan had adamantly voted against the excursion, claiming that not only was it dangerous, but they had adequate reason to believe that it wouldn’t work. Roman, on the other hand, was quick to point out the fact that Patton had only seen about ten seconds of what was going to happen. Maybe it took a little longer to come back from death. 

Roman would be lying if he wasn’t infinitely more nervous, but he would also be lying if he said he didn’t want to go through with it. This was the only way. If it didn’t work, he’d be dead sooner than later anyway. It was a grim thought, and he figured against mentioning it to Patton, especially when he was already stress-cooking as it was, but he couldn’t deny the truth of it. 

The dinner was amazing, as they always were, but Roman couldn’t taste any of it. He smiled and complemented Patton on his cooking. He joked and laughed, but despite his efforts, it was painfully obvious to the rest of the table that he was compensating for the fact that he may not be returning to said table. 

Logan spoke softly, occasionally giving into Roman’s baiting remarks and going off on a tangent, but the way he sat and speared leaves of lettuce with his fork as if stabbing something through the heart betrayed his unease. 

Virgil was far less subtle about his discomfort. He barely spoke, and when he did he only gave short, one-word answers. He particularly avoided looking at Roman—which Roman went to great lengths to not grow offended at. He'd realized, as Logan had rebuked them all in the living room, that he wasn’t mad a Virgil.

He was mad at the situation. At Ursula. Yes, Virgil might have assisted in getting him his curse, and Dorian might have killed his mother, but ultimately, there was one person behind all of it, forcing everyone else to take the blame. 

Roman stared down at his dinner with enough anger burning through him, he was surprised he didn't melt his fork. So, yes, he understood why Virgil might think he was still angry with him. Roman would have to properly forgive him for it later—as he was quite certain the familiar would be beating himself up about it for the rest of his seemingly immortal life unless he did—but for the time being, Roman let it simmer.

* * *

The walk through nighttime-Wakeby was different with three of Roman's best friends by his side. He was nearly vibrating from a combination of nausea, excitement, and absolute terror. Patton spoke softly with Virgil, wanting to know more about sibyls, and Virgil patiently obliged. Roman watched out of the corner of his eye as they walked down the street, not caring about subtlety at the moment—glad to see Virgil appearing less grief-stricken and back to his normal, albeit tense, self. 

Logan stared straight ahead, walking with the seriousness of an army general. 

Roman nudged him. “Lighten up, Specs. You look like you’re going to a funeral.”

“If that was an attempt at humor, you will have to try harder,” Logan replied, his expression unchanging. 

“Geez. I know I’m dying and all that, but really, Lo.” He sobered a bit. “I’m coming back, aren’t I?”

“Presumably.”

Roman swallowed. “You really aren’t one for cheering a guy up, are you?”

Logan clasped his hands behind his back as they walked, blinking. “No. I’m not.”

* * *

Patton didn’t like this situation. He didn’t like the dark. He didn’t like the pit growing in his stomach. He didn’t like watching Roman’s back and not having to imagine what he’d look like dead, because he’d already seen it. He hated how comfortable and calm Roman was in the pitch-black forest. Patton found himself walking side by side with Virgil so closely their arms brushed every now and again. There was a sort of silent acknowledgement of their mutual discomfort, and neither of them drew away from the other. 

Roman, quite obviously trying to mask his nerves, laughed and joked and gestured grandly, as if showing them around his bedroom. “I broke that branch up there—see? The one that’s snapped off half way? Yeah, Dorian chased me up a tree, and let me tell you, it was _ not _ exactly my idea of a fun time. It snapped as I was climbing and, man, you’d have thought he would have swallowed me then and there…” he rambled, like an old man recounting war stories. Virgil grew stiff beside him, his eyes glazing over and his steps becoming halting. 

Not wanting to fall behind the other two, Patton ignored the nervous pounding of his own heart and slipped his hand into Virgil’s, hoping to comfort him in some way. The act seemed to snap Virgil out of whatever stupor he'd been in and he shot a grateful, if not slightly flushed, look Patton’s way. The gesture also soothed Patton’s nerves somewhat. 

“Oh! Here we are! Dorian!” Roman called, jogging out into a large clearing. Virgil’s grip tightened and Patton looked up, his heart crawling up into his throat and lodging there. 

An enormous snake sat in the middle of the clearing—and by enormous, Patton didn’t mean it was just _ big. _It could easily constrict a bus the same way an anaconda would a small animal, if not crush it entirely. How in the world had Roman survived fighting this thing for so long? And why was he running up to it like it was some kind of old friend of his? Logan was in a similar situation, frozen at the edge of the meadow, trying to register what he was seeing. 

“Come on, guys. He won’t bite—he promised,” Roman shouted. Patton tugged a little on Virgil’s hand and they both stumbled forward into the clearing. Logan trailed behind them, muttering softly to himself. 

The giant serpent inspected them all, his head mere inches from Roman’s side. 

_ “It has been a considerable amount of time since I have been amongst more than two humans at the same time. Although,” _ he purred, “ _ it seems there are fewer true-blooded mortals here than I expected. You did not tell me you hosted a sibyl in your company, little prince.” _

“Yeah, neither did I until about three hours ago,” Roman laughed. 

“Um, hello,” Patton managed, giving a small wave. He wasn’t quite sure how he should act. He certainly wasn’t about to be all buddy-buddy with the creature that almost murdered one of his best friends, but from the way Roman was behaving, he wasn’t so sure how to feel. He erred on the side of caution, and went for politeness. 

Roman put his hands on his hips. “So, how’re we starting this party, hmm?”

Dorian glanced at him. _ “I can smell your fear, little prince. Do not play coy with me.” _

Roman’s countenance faltered. “Right, well, um, let’s get on with it then, shall we?” He ran a hand through his hair and faced Dorian. 

_ “I cannot simply bite you, little prince. That would constitute fatally injuring you, and exceeds our contract.” _

Roman’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, “But, if you can’t bite me, how—”

_ “You will have to prick yourself.” _

Roman paled. 

“This is insane,” Logan breathed, still trailing a few paces behind Patton and Virgil. Patton had to agree with him, though he wouldn’t deny how relieved he was that he wasn’t going to have to watch Dorian actually bite Roman. He probably would have fainted. 

“There has to be another way,” he demanded, stepped forward, though still keeping a healthy distance from the demon. 

Roman’s shoulders dropped, “Lo, come on. We talked about this.”

“I’m not—I can’t just watch you die, Roman! There has to be some other option we aren’t looking at. I’m sure I can come up with something if you just—”

“There isn’t another way,” Virgil muttered. “Ursula’s isn’t some one-off, throw-away spellcaster. Her curses can only be broken by fulfilling the demands.”

Roman shuffled his feet a little. “If you really don’t want to be here, Logan, I understand. You don’t have to watch.” 

Desperately hoping his fear didn’t show on his face, Patton marched up to Roman, coming so close to Dorian he could feel the air whip past him as the serpent’s forked tongue wagged next to him. 

“We are _ not _ letting you do this alone, Roman.”

Roman looked over Patton’s shoulder at Logan, and from his steadily softening expression, Patton assumed Logan had admitted agreement. 

“Fine, but if anything happens to him…” Virgil growled, meeting Dorian’s eye, unwavering. 

_ “I assure you our goals are mutual, familiar, but I’m curious. Please, elaborate on what you’ll _ do to me _ exactly,” _Dorian rumbled, rising up ever so slightly. Patton stepped behind Roman with a barely contained squeak. 

“Dorian, please,” Roman sighed. Virgil and Dorian stared at each other, unblinking. Patton could practically feel the protectiveness wafting off Virgil, though his hands shook. Logan looked nearly as angry, but put a firm hand on Virgil’s shoulder and muttered something in his ear. Patton hoped he could step in with some diplomatic words and ease the situation before it escalated. He wasn’t too keen on getting eaten by a giant serpent tonight. 

_ “I can’t believe I forgot how insufferably arrogant mortals are. You may be a witch’s familiar, but they taint you with their idiocy.” _

Virgil pulled against Logan’s hand. “Yeah? Did you also forget that one of those insufferable idiots managed to _ beat you _ every single night?”

“Virgil!” Roman barked, and Patton couldn’t tell if he was telling him to stop, or was upset that Virgil called him an insufferable idiot. Probably both. 

“Look,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, and turning to Dorian, “I get it. You don’t like us. We, frankly, don’t like you either, but we had a deal. I’d like to get this whole thing over with before I’m sixty-five, if you don’t mind.”

_ “Very well,” _ Dorian grumbled, lowering down. _ “You are wearing the amulet?” _

“Yes.”

In response, Dorian bore his fangs, a chilling hiss leaking from his all-black throat. Now, Patton did let out a small, terrified shriek. Logan and Virgil both inched forward to be closer to Roman. 

Trembling, he held out his hand and placed his palm against the bottom of the needle-point fang, right below the thumb. 

“Roman,” Patton whimpered softly, more to himself than anyone else. Roman sucked in a sharp breath and his hand jerked upward. The fang sank into the meat of his hand, dark blood seeping sluggishly down his arm. 

He pulled away, swallowing thickly. Dorian closed his mouth, the fangs folding back like he was sheathing a sword. Roman opened and closed his fist, looking down at it with an unreadable expression. 

“I… need to sit down,” he said, sounding a thousand miles away. He swayed, leaning heavily on Patton.

“Okay—um, let’s see,” Patton said, unsure what to do or how to feel. “Lo, help me sit him down.” Logan responded at once, grabbing Roman under his arms and slowly lowering him down. Patton went down with him, cradling his head in his hands, silently telling them to stop shaking. 

Roman winced as his entire arm spasmed, the muscles reacting to the venom. 

“Are you in pain?” Logan asked, his hands fretting uselessly about Roman. 

“No.”

“Roman—”

“It’s fine, Specs. It’ll be over soon,” he said, waving his hand away. Patton’s chest seized.

Virgil paced furiously through the grass, nibbling on his fist. “This was a bad idea. It isn’t going to work.”

“Verge, please,” Patton managed around the lump in his throat. He really wasn’t helping the situation. Another spasm, this time Roman’s entire shoulder, and a bit of his neck—his head twitching to the side. His breathing picked out a fast rhythm. 

“Remember to take the—the amulet off, guys. Okay? Don’t forget. You can’t,” Roman said, squirming in discomfort on the ground. 

“We won’t forget, Roman.” Patton said sweetly, running a hand across his hair. Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring the outside world into smears of indigo and green. “We could never forget you.”

“Patton is right. The odds of us forgetting the single most important step of tonight’s escapade is astronomical,” Logan said.

Roman nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’d hold your hand, Padre,” he chuckled, “but I can’t move it anymore.”

Patton cursed himself for shaking. Roman was probably terrified. He shouldn’t be worrying about him right now. Patton felt something cold on his hand and looked down. Tears were streaking down Roman’s face. His breath was slowing, though Patton figured it wasn’t because he was calm. The venom was working through his system. 

Dorian had retreated a few feet away, coiled up and watching silently as Roman’s life ebbed away. His reptilian face betrayed no emotion, and yet Patton was sure he felt something when he met the demon’s eyes. 

“Hey, Teach?” Roman mumbled. 

Logan leaned forward. “Yes?”

Roman’s eyebrows creased as he worked the words out of his mouth. “You know the thing you do with Charlie Frown, over there? The… reading?”

Patton looked to Logan, who seemed to understand what Roman meant. “Of course. Any requests?”

Roman snorted weakly out of his nose, and shook his head. 

Logan gave a wet smile. _ “I built a tiny garden in a corner of my heart. I kept it just for lovely things, and bid all else depart…” _

Patton gave up trying to hold himself together, balling gentle fists of Roman’s hair in his hands and bowing over him. Tears plopped from his nose and chin, dotting Roman's still face. Patton bit his lip to keep from outright sobbing so hard he tasted blood. 

_ “And ever was there music, and flowers blossomed fair.” _

Roman grew still. His chest rose. 

And fell. 

_ “And never was it perfect, until you entered there.” _

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Logan recites is "Sanctum" by Beulah B. Mallon


	14. till snatched from thence by friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman wakes up. Slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from "The Author to Her Book" by Anne Bradstreet

Patton hated when his dreams played out in reality. It was like the worst kind of deja vu. Even if the dream detailed something mundane like a conversation, knowing what someone would say before they said it only served to remind him that he was different. A freak. _A sibyl, actually, _he thought. Perhaps that was a better term to use, though Patton still felt out of place in the world. He fought to keep calm, but it wasn’t working. 

“How long do we wait to take it off?” Virgil muttered, still pacing. 

Logan squatted near Roman’s head and felt his neck with two fingers. He retracted his hand. “He doesn’t have a pulse anymore, but we should wait a few minutes for official brain-death to occur. I don’t want there to be any loopholes left in this curse.”

“He’s… cold,” Patton observed miserably. 

Logan picked up Roman’s hand, staring at it quizzically. “That doesn’t make sense. It normally takes a human body twelve hours before becoming cold to the touch, never mind the twenty-four hours it takes to cool to the core under normal… Well, I guess these don’t qualify as normal circumstances.” He looked over at Dorian, wheels churning in his brain.

Patton’s breath hitched in his chest. Logan was so calm about everything, talking about Roman like a cadaver in a lab. Patton knew in his heart that _ of course _ Logan cared, he just wasn’t showing it, but Patton couldn’t help but hear the paramedics speaking in similar tones over Merri’s body. The sirens. The pink water. The—

_ “Patton,” _Logan said, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. Patton hiccupped out of his panic, looking away from Roman’s body and into Logan’s eyes. 

“I’m f—” He stopped the words before they left, knowing they were lies, but couldn’t find any to replace them. He let out a shaky breath, squeezing Logan’s hand between his cheek and shoulder and giving him a grateful look. 

_ “It is time,” _Dorian said and Patton jumped. The serpent had been so silent, Patton had almost forgotten he was there. 

“How do you know?” Virgil demanded, though his anger was tempered somewhat by his sadness, making his voice soft and heartbreakingly vulnerable-sounding. 

Dorian flicked his tongue toward Roman’s body. _ “I can tell the life has gone out of him. Do not ask me to explain such convoluted concepts to a bunch of mortals, familiar. They will not understa—” _

“I’m assuming it's somewhat similar in nature to a snake’s thermal vision, yes?” Logan interrupted, adjusting his glasses and standing. “Though I’m uncertain about the whole ‘sensing the presence of conscious life’ aspect, I’d guess the ideas are generally the same. You are able to sense the heat profiles of your victims through the pit organs on your head, are you not?”

_ “...Yes,” _Dorian relented, obviously irked at Logan’s apparent understanding of said convoluted concepts. Patton would have smiled, had he not been so nervous about Roman. 

“Okay, so let’s get the amulet off,” Virgil said, coming to Patton’s side and shifting back and forth on his feet. 

“Of course.” Logan approached and unbuttoned Roman’s shirt, reaching down into the sleeve. It took a moment before Logan was able to untie it, seeing as he couldn’t see what his hands were doing under the shirt. 

“He couldn’t have worn this around his neck, tonight, could he,” he muttered angrily to himself. 

Logan’s hand retracted, and it was off. The ruby gem sparkled in the moonlight, rotating gently, held aloft by Logan’s fist. 

Patton looked down at Roman’s pale face. His body 

They all waited.

* * *

Roman couldn’t have told you what happened to him when he died if he wanted to. He couldn’t remember. The first sensation that rocked him out of whatever endless sleep he’d slipped into was pain. That same scorching cold that accompanied any healing performed by Ursula’s amulet, but this time, it was a hundred times worse. 

It started in his head. The mechanisms of his brain function restarting like gears squealing after prolonged disuse. For a long time, he couldn’t form coherent thoughts. Roman simply felt and experienced, like a newborn. Eventually, he found his inner voice, his memories all flooding back to him. He hadn’t been able to worry about whether they would return until they had, but the fear stayed with him. He could have forgotten everything: how to eat, how to speak, how to walk. It was terrifying. 

Roman still couldn’t move, though. 

The feeling spread down his spinal cord, branching out to the different parts of his body. 

He’d read about people who climbed Everest and returned horribly frostbitten, having to do physical therapy in pools of warm water for months, if not years, to get feeling back into their limbs. This was what Roman imagined it must feel like. To feel his body slowly thawing. Each nerve ending was as traumatized as the last, firing signal after signal to his brain, making sure it was known that the nerve was alive and well, and perfectly capable of relaying the fact that something horribly wrong had occurred.

He was terribly cold. At least he could tell, right? He couldn’t hear anything. Whether that was simply because the magic hadn’t reached his ears yet, or because he was truly alone was yet to be discovered.

How long had he been dead? He’d never know. It was ridiculous, but he couldn’t help but picture himself, several years older, the forest having grown over his body, having to dig himself back to the surface. What if they forgot? Anything could have happened. Dorian could have killed them all before they got the chance to free him, and he was only waking now because the amulet’s chain had rusted away with age and fallen away. 

The sudden, frantic beat of his heart pounded in his chest like a kettle drum and scared him half to death. 

A desperate instinct to breathe overtook him and his mouth opened of its own accord. His eyes flew open as he took his first breath, feeling the strangely horrible feeling of his lungs reinflating. 

His eyes saw nothing but darkness, even though he knew they were open. His body was still restarting. His lungs heaved, desperate to take in as much air as humanly possible in the event they were unable to do so again. He coughed and wretched and could vaguely feel his entire frame shaking as his muscles attempted to draw warm blood back into them. 

Everything hurt. His joints were stiff and cracked every time he moved them. He felt exhausted whilst at the same time wanting to run and never stop moving ever again. 

Roman felt the vibrations of some sort of noise in his ears, but it was like he was listening from underwater and couldn’t make out what was being said. He could hear what must be his own voice rattling around in his head every time he exhaled. He was making some sort of sound, but Roman couldn’t tell if he was screaming, crying, or just speaking gibberish.

Hands grasped him, holding his arm and shoulders, cradling his face. Entirely too close and yet not close enough. He wasn’t alone. Was it them? His friends? Roman desperately hoped so. Eventually the sounds around him settled into coherent sounds. 

“...oman!... Roman can you hear us? Logan, something’s wrong, he can’t hear us.”

“I… I don’t know. I’ve never encountered something like this. Dying and coming back could have any number of side effects.”

If Roman’s heart could beat any faster, it would have leaped right out of his chest. It was Patton! And Logan! He couldn’t hear Virgil, but judging by the feeling of heavy fabric draped across his still-trembling body and the familiar scent of… of just _ Virgil _. They hadn’t left him. They hadn’t forgotten. 

“_Oh, _Lo, he’s crying. Logan, what do we do? Roman?! Are you alright? Can you speak?”

Roman swallowed, the mind-numbing pain of the amulet’s magic fading to the back of his mind somewhat, and attempted to make words come out.

“Hhhhey,” he eventually managed through his chattering teeth. The subsequent relief was almost palpable in the air. 

“Are you in distress, Roman? What am I saying, of course you are. Look at you, you’re shaking,” Logan muttered. 

Roman blinked again and again, trying to clear his blurry but steadily sharpening vision. It probably didn’t help that it was the middle of the night and everything was dark. He saw blobs of color. Patton’s shirt. Virgil’s shoes a little ways away, pacing back and forth, in and out of his field of view. 

Roman wanted to move his arm. He wanted to grab Patton’s hand, but actually moving seemed so hard. It took more thought and effort than it ever had before. He felt each one of his muscles moving in stuttering tandem as his arm slowly rose from where it was clutched against his chest and made its wobbly way toward his friend. 

He missed, instead grabbing a weak fistful of Patton’s shirt, but Patton got the message, cradling Roman’s hand in both of his. 

“How l—long?” he breathed. 

Patton squeezed his hand. “About thirty minutes, kiddo. We took the amulet off as soon as we knew you were… you know, but it took a while for you to wake back up.”

“I… I wanna stand. Let me get up,” Roman groaned, trying to force himself up onto an elbow. Even that seemed a daunting task, and his muscles shook with effort. _ This is ridiculous, _ he thought sourly, _ I wasn’t dead _ that _ long. Get it together. _

“Uh, Roman, I don’t think that’s the best idea.” 

“Help me, then,” he snapped. He didn’t mean to be rude, but he was itching to start_ moving. _

Hands hooked under his arms and pulled him upright.

“Whoa,” he groaned. The world swam before him, his head spinning. Virgil took a few steps back to avoid the vomit Roman ended up spewing across the grass. He really should have seen it coming, but he didn’t care. He was up and standing. 

“Oh, that’s gross,” Patton muttered, nose wrinkling. Virgil’s jacket slid off his shoulders, and Roman’s hands were too slow to catch it. 

“Oh, no.” 

“Nope, don’t even try it, kiddo,” Patton chided when Roman went to bend over and pick it up. Virgil stepped behind them and snatched it up, brushing the grass and dirt off of it. 

“Dorian?” Roman asked, looking around as much as his stiff neck would allow. 

“He left after the first ten minutes,” Logan explained. “He assured us you would wake back up, then departed.” 

“Jerk,” he scoffed and Logan finally cracked a smile. “Let’s get out of here, guys.”

* * *

The walk out of the forest was long and painful, but Roman would never forget the feeling of walking again after literally dying and coming back to life. The sights, the _ smells_, they were almost overwhelming, but not in a bad way. It felt so _ good _ to be alive. 

Eventually, he was able to walk on his own, though Logan and Patton were never more than a foot away, ready to catch him if he fell… again. 

At last, they approached the edge of the forest. Roman could see Wakeby, and for once it didn’t feel so far away. 

The sky was still dark. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t be allowed to cross. Even getting this close to the border would have him writhing in excruciating pain. Any attempt to cross completely, and he might as well run into a brick wall. 

Now, here he was, standing inches away. The other three had already crossed, and had all stopped, looking at him. 

“What’s wrong, Ro?”

“Nothing, I…” He shook his head. “I just never thought I’d live to—to _ see this _, you know?”

As gently as one would handle thousand-year-old china, Roman stepped into the meadow beyond the trees. 

Nothing happened. 

Absolutely. Nothing. 

Roman fell to his knees, right there outside the forest that had been his prison, and sobbed.


	15. as i march into the dark decay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, Virgil met a witch...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: unhealthy relationships, graphic imagery
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from "Into the Dark Decay" by Jonathan Maraccini.

About 400 years ago

Virgil became himself yesterday. At least, that’s what the witch-child called him. Virgil. He liked the name.

It wasn’t that he forgot what it was like to be a normal cat, but ever since he’d started hanging around that strange witch-child, he’d started changing. He started thinking more like how the witch-child spoke, less and less concerned about mice and smells and territories.

“You’re supposed to be magical now, Virgil,” she said. Her name was Ursula, though Virgil was hesitant to refer to her by her name just yet. He wasn’t sure how long this strange relationship would last, and didn’t want to get attached.

He blinked up at her, his tail swishing absentmindedly along the ramshackle play house’s dirt floor. 

“Mama said that you’d be able to turn human before long. I wonder what you’ll look like.”

Virgil wrinkled his nose at the thought. _ Who would want to turn human? They were so clunky and loud. _

Ursula snorted. “Well, that wasn’t a very nice thing to say.”

She froze. 

So did Virgil. 

“I understood you.”

_ She understood me. _

“Ah!” she yelped in surprise, her hands flying to her forehead. “I hear you in my head! I didn’t know familiars could do that.” Her brow furrowed. “So _ that’s _ how Mama always knows when I steal from the pantry. Harold’s been snitching on me.”

_ I’ll eat that owl one day, _ Virgil thought smugly. The creature was obnoxious and always lurking. 

Ursula laughed. “Don’t eat him, silly.” 

A ruffle of feathers sounded from the rafters. They both looked up to see Harold settling on one of the upper beams. 

_ You’re talking now, I see, _ he drawled, head swiveling toward Virgil. 

Virgil’s hair stood on end. _ Harold can speak too? _

“What?” Ursula pouted. “No fair, how come you two can talk to each other?”

_ You aren’t missing out on much, _Virgil grumbled. 

Ursula’s face took on a mischievous expression. “You wanna play a game, kitty?”

_ A game? _

“First one to pluck one of Harold’s tail feathers gets to sleep in my bed tonight.”

Harold ruffled his wings, preening nervously. _ Now, you two, there’s no reason to— _

_ You’re on, _Virgil said, wasting no time in scrambling up the wood pillars near the walls and racing across the rafters. 

Harold took off in a flurry of squawks and beating wings, escaping through a hole in the playhouse’s ceiling. Ursula let out a giddy laugh and raced outside. 

Virgil thought he might just like this witch.

* * *

40 years later. 

Ursula changed since being banished. The first few days, they’d wandered the surrounding forest looking for some sort of suitable shelter. Everything felt duller out here. The air was filled with gray and brown birds instead of the rainbow array of pixies he’d grown so used to. The trees were just trunks of wood, not dryads and wood nymphs in disguise. Deer were skittish and afraid of them. 

The first time they stumbled across a human village, Ursula had expressed her distaste for this world and marched right back into the forest. 

She grew calloused and snappish, sometimes going days without speaking a word to him. Virgil missed the Witchlands just as much as Ursula—arguably more, since he was a magical being in of himself—but he couldn’t deny the relief he felt. Rosemary could have killed them with as little as two words. They were lucky to be alive. 

Life melded into a blur of monotony. They slept in a grove of trees with canopies thick enough to shield them from most of the weather. The long grass was thick and soft, and made a good enough mattress. 

Virgil had worried Ursula would be stripped of her powers upon dher banishment, but fortunately, she wasn’t. She spent the first few hours of the morning every day off in a clearing they’d picked out, slowly building a cottage for them to live in. 

He often shifted into his human form to hunt for the both of them, as his original body was a bit too small to take down birds big enough to feed both of them. He’d rarely had a use for the bipedal form in the Witchlands, but after a few days of getting used to the way it moved, he was glad to report that he was just as adept a hunter in either form. He assisted Ursula in building the cottage, helping raise walls, collect rocks with flecks of iron in them to make some nails, menial tasks like that.

Virgil didn’t mind the solitude. It reminded him of his days as a normal cat. In fact, their life hadn’t been more peaceful.

Ursula, however, was tense with agitation most nights, fueling the burning core of hurt inside of her. When she _ did _ talk to him, it was about revenge, plots, and schemes. She had friends and allies in the Witchlands still. She must. Unless Rosemary had turned them all against her as she had with her rebel militia. 

Virgil tried reasoning with her, but she wouldn’t hear any of it. After a particularly heated debate about their predicament, she’d locked him out of the newly finished cottage in the middle of winter for the entire night. 

It wasn’t long before her schemes hatched into full-grown plots. 

Hobgoblins were known for smuggling items between the real world and the Witchlands. It didn’t take Ursula long to track one down. His name was Remus. Virgil hated him. He was rude and smelled like the underside of a rotting log. He was considerably shorter than Virgil in human form—his head about level with Virgil’s navel. Ursula buttered him up with praise and compliments, getting him to do little things for her like bring her nectar from a star flower, or the wing of a pixie. A book from the royal library. A recipe. An anthology of folktales. 

It didn’t take long for Ursula to figure it out. 

Immortality didn’t suit her. 

If she had been cold before, she was downright cruel, now. She began treating Virgil as more of a pet than her familiar, than her _ partner. _

Her power increased ten-fold. She mastered Displacement—a type of teleportation using magic—that even the most learned of witches struggled with. She had Remus bring those who had once been her allies to her, and when they called her deranged, she snapped them off to a deserted island in the middle of some ocean far away. 

“If they aren’t going to help me, I might as well make sure they don’t help _ her, _” she’d say. She even threatened to send Virgil there occasionally to get him to be quiet. 

Remus pelted Virgil with a kernel of corn, still scorching hot from the pan, from where he sat near the fire. Virgil flinched as it hit his neck, but didn’t say anything, his tail whipping the floor in agitation. He’d found over the course of Remus’s employment, that reacting only egged him on more. 

“This has got to work,” she muttered. Ursula sat at the table, looking over the scrawled notes she’d compiled. Her hair was graying, though she still looked young as ever. Her eyes, however, showed her age. They were harsh and cunning, sharpened on the whetstone of life and hardship. 

“What’s gotta work?” Remus droned, squinting as he aimed another kernel at Virgil’s ear. 

“She’s working on something else this time.” A somewhat manic grin spread across her face. “We’re gonna steal it.”

“Sounds like fun,” Remus said, releasing the kernel. It went low and hit Virgil’s shoulder. He tensed, his ears swiveling back against his head. Remus’s smile stretched. Ursula let him do whatever he wanted only because he was her only source of information in and out of the Witchlands. It was a good thing Virgil was far more powerful than Remus, otherwise, the hobgoblin would likely have a hayday chasing him all over the forest. 

One last kernel struck Virgil’s flank and he leaped to his paws, growling as he shifted to his human form. A touch of fear mingled with Remus’s excited expression as he stared up at Virgil towering over him. 

“No need to get all worked up, kitty-cat,” he laughed, shifting a little. 

“Calm down, Virgil,” Ursula muttered, glancing at him from her paperwork. Virgil chewed his cheek, seriously debating at least grabbing Remus and throwing him out a window before “calming down,” but thought better of it and relaxed back into his feline form. 

_ It might not be the best idea for you to be seen in the Witchlands, let alone the royal palace, _ Virgil said, watching Remus out of the corner of his eye. 

Ursula picked up all the papers and tapped them on the table, collecting them into a single pile. “I won’t be going anywhere near the Witchlands.”

Remus looked at her. “Then how…?”

She grinned again. “You two are going to steal her research _ for _me.”

* * *

Virgil hated this. Ursula had said they were both stealing the Queen’s research, but in reality, Remus was just getting Virgil inside. _ He _ was the one doing all the work. Thankfully, none of the guards had ever seen him in human form, and wouldn’t recognize him. Unfortunately, he had to remain human to stay inconspicuous, which drastically reduced the number of places he could sneak into unnoticed. 

His footsteps echoed loud in the empty palace halls. Virgil was dressed as a servant, and so far no one had stopped him. If Remus’s information was correct, the Queen was in diplomatic meetings for the next three hours, and her study would be deserted, aside from the stray few guards, of course, but he could take care of them easily enough. 

Two right turns, pass two intersections, and… the door on the left. Bingo. 

Checking that no one was coming down either side of the hall, Virgil tried the knob. It was unlocked. The guards wouldn’t attack immediately since he looked like the staff, and that should give him the necessary window of time to—

The study was empty. Bookshelves lined the walls, tomes lay open on the desk, and the large windows behind the desk filtered in the daylight. Virgil stepped slowly into the room and closed the door behind him with a soft click. 

“What are you doing?” 

Virgil whirled, his heart hammering. A man sat on an unassuming stool in the corner of the room behind the door, out of sight. Virgil opened his mouth to spew some sort of excuse, but his words died in his mouth when he saw the man’s face. 

Half of it was covered in scales. One of his eyes was slitted like a serpent’s and glowed a faint gold. 

They eye narrowed ever so slightly before the man let out a soft little snort of a laugh. “Last I checked, we hadn’t hired any familiars as a part of our staff.” He closed the book he held in his hands, setting it next to him. “I haven’t stretched my muscles in a while, so why don’t you run along? I’ll give you a head start before killing you.”

Virgil didn’t try to defend himself. He knew he was caught. Pulse beating out of control, he flew from the room. He returned to feline form, knowing he could run faster like that. The tap of Bloodwyrm’s shoes on the tile reached his ears just before a sharp snap of air that sounded more like an explosion of thunder rumbled through the hall. A flash of yellow light blinded Virgil for a moment, but he didn't stop running. 

_ Virgil? What’s wrong? _ Ursula’s voice asked in his mind. 

He couldn’t form coherent thoughts. He relayed images, emotions, the pure terror of being chased by an enormous demon. 

_ Oh my… well that does put a damper on things. Did you at least get the research? _

Virgil skidded around the corner, slipping a little on the slick marble tile. The horrid sound of scales sliding across the floor filled his ears. He didn’t know where he was going. Where were the exits? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was not getting caught. 

Bloodwyrm crashed into the corner as he tried to turn, his scales too smooth to get a firm enough grip on the floor. That didn’t stop him, though.

_ “I can smell you anywhere you go, familiar,” _he taunted, his voice reverberated around the vaulted ceilings like a bell tolling. 

Guards were beginning to flood the halls, coming to see what all the commotion was. Upon seeing the Queen’s demon on the hunt, they all paled and stepped back. 

_ Get me out! _Virgil shrieked through his connection to Ursula. 

_ I need that research, Virgil. I’m not pulling you out until you have it. _

_ I can’t, he’s going to— _

He tripped. 

Virgil wasn’t entirely sure how it happened. His paw must have buckled or something, because one minute he was racing down another, frustratingly identical hallway and the next he was tumbling down the hall. 

His leg snapped. His head smacked against the solid floor, sending bursts of color swimming across his vision. 

Virgil could vaguely sense the rumble of Bloodwyrm closing in through the floor, but he couldn’t move. All he could see was yellow scales. The beast had surrounded him. 

A hand grabbed him by the scruff, lifting him off the floor. 

A single guard. Where’d he come from? 

_ The research, Virgil. Come on. Don’t be pathetic. _

_ It’s over, Ursula. I can’t. They found me, _ he thought as he slowly came back to his senses. _ Pull me out of here. _ And she definitely could, if she wanted to. Her abilities of displacement would easily reach this far. 

She didn’t respond. 

“The Queen will want to see the intruder,” the guard said, though Virgil could practically smell the fear wafting off him. 

_ “I can take care of him, mortal.” _

“...Yes, of course,” the man replied, repulsed. Virgil felt the sickening feeling of weightlessness as the man swung his arm and _ flung him into the air. _

The world seemed to move in slow motion. Bloodwyrm’s jaw unhinged and he shot forward. 

Virgil twisted in the air, but it was hopeless. He was going to _ eat him no, no nononoNO— _

The jaws snapped shut, and Virgil was enveloped in wet darkness. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bloodwyrm was one of the names given to Dorian by the common folk of the Witchlands.


	16. when love's reliance ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil starts to think happily ever after is much too far for him to reach...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: verbal and physical abuse, PTSD, flashbacks, toxic relationships
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from "Unkindness" by Charles Swain.

_This can’t be happening, _was what Virgil would have thought, had he been in a decent state of mind when he was swallowed by the Witch Queen’s beast. Instead, he fought the urge to faint as hot slippery muscles contracted around him, forcing him deeper into the demon’s gullet. 

Ursula was right. He was pathetic. He should be fighting right now. Scratching and biting; _ anything _ to get the serpent to throw him back up.

But he did nothing.

It was like his mind couldn’t completely register what was happening. That, and the pain in his newly broken leg kept him just dizzy enough to keep him unfocused. 

Panic coursed through him like someone had opened his mouth and stuck his face under a waterfall, and yet he wasn’t yowling in terror. He was barely thrashing, for crying out loud. 

Virgil couldn’t breathe, but he couldn’t tell if it was the white hot terror of imminent death seizing in his chest or the disgusting lumps of slimey muscle pressing into him, suffocating his small frame.

He could shift into a human. Right? That must do something. 

No. Bloodwyrm had eaten plenty of humans before. Unless he could turn into something bigger, there was no hope. He was going to die here.

His lungs burned. His leg sent spikes of pain up his entire body every time the muscles pressed down on it. He choked on bitter, tacky fluids he couldn’t name.

Virgil vaguely felt Ursula’s presence in his mind. 

_ I can’t believe you’re being serious right now, _she complained.

How long before he hit stomach acid? How quickly would it kill him? Would he die from the burning or just drown first? He couldn’t believe he was going to be _ digested. _

_ Alright, fine, hold on… _she muttered, their connection waning. 

Virgil’s lungs spasmed and the sticky slime filled his mouth, his nose. His body felt heavy. His eyes slipped shut…

* * *

“...dead? Can I take his eyes? They’d go for some solid coin.”

“Shut up, he isn’t dead yet.”

Something pressed down hard on Virgil’s ribs, forcing whatever blocked his throat up and out. He squirmed weakly as he vomited up juices that definitely weren’t his own. All of his limbs felt weighed down, like he’d just waded through mud… or… 

Images and smells assaulted him out of nowhere. His ears filled with that horrid squelching sound, and his eyes flew open, his breath catching in his chest.

“What’s wrong with him?” Remus asked, poking him. Virgil wanted to growl, to scream, to claw Remus’s eyes out, _ something _, but he couldn’t move, staring blankly ahead and suffering through the agonizing sensations wracking his mind.

“He’s all slimey,” The hobgoblin noted.

“I think Bloodwyrm swallowed him,” Ursula said. A wave of her hand, and Virgil was dry once more. 

Virgil let out a shuddering breath, curling in on himself. 

Remus poked him once again, and he shivered. 

“Leave him be, goblin,” Ursula said softly, getting up and walking away. Remus grumbled something under his breath, but obeyed. Virgil should have been grateful for that small act of kindness, but he couldn’t. 

He couldn’t think of anything else but the feeling of being eaten.

* * *

Days passed in a blur. 

Virgil didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure he could, at this point. He stayed in his human form as much as possible, vainly hoping that being big and intimidating would help him feel better. 

It didn’t.

He still woke up screaming, or as a terrified, confused cat. Everything he did was exhausting. His heart constantly raced at little things, like the lights being out, or the sound of Remus swallowing his food. 

_ That _was what really got him. Remus would chew his food loudly, gulping water down, watching Virgil from the corner of his eye. Virgil would usually end up storming out of the cottage, or getting so worked up he swore he’d kill Remus in his sleep. 

Sometimes, he was so angry he thought he’d explode, but for no reason in particular. When he finally _ did _ start speaking again, Ursula rolled her eyes and asked if he was finally over “the whole mission-thing.”

“I’m fine,” he lied. Remus grinned at that, and Virgil felt a little pocket of dread open up inside him. He hadn’t told either of them yet, but he couldn’t use his powers. Aside from shifting between a cat and a human, he hadn’t been able to perform any of his usual magic. 

He was useless, and now completely helpless to defend himself from Remus. It was only a matter of time before they figured it out.

* * *

“What do you mean you can’t do it?” Ursula demanded around a mouthful of stew. 

Virgil’s chest constricted. “I—I don’t know, I guess I haven’t been myself lately, and—”

Ursula slammed her spoon down on the table and Virgil flinched. She pointed the utensil at him like a weapon. “You’re still hung up on what Bloodwyrm did, aren’t you, you pathetic cat? I thought I told you to stop freaking out about it. It’s over. It happened, like, a month ago, now.”

“I’m not freaking out about it,” Virgil protested, but it came out halting and breathless. “I don’t know why my magic isn’t working.” 

“Nature spirits almighty! You’d think you were tortured or something! You just broke a leg, Virgil, stop being such a baby about it,” she said, throwing her hands in the air. “I might just get it in my head to make Remus my familiar instead of you, how about that?”

Remus perked up. “Really?”

“No, you’re too ugly,” she said, waving a hand. Remus snorted, nodding in agreement. 

Virgil shrank down. 

“For crying out loud, you stay in that human form so much, it’s like you think you’re a person, or something! Get a hold of yourself, you aren’t a kitten anymore. Bad things happen to everyone, Virgil. You aren’t special,” she grumbled. 

“I’m sorr—”

“Shut up! Could you be less pathetic for five minutes?!” She snapped, and flung her bowl of stew at him. The bowl struck Virgil’s shoulder and bathed him in scalding broth. He cried out, stumbling back. 

“There’s your dinner. I’m done arguing with you. Go clean yourself up before you get crap all over the floor,” Ursula muttered, walking off to her room in a huff. Virgil wiped his face, careful not to flick his hands and get it everywhere. He went to go outside, but his hand was covered in broth, and he didn’t want to touch the doorknob. Wiping it on his tunic as best he could, he stepped outside into the freezing air. 

“If I were Ursula,” Remus mused, leaning out of the kitchen window the leer at him, “I’d send you back to the palace and have Bloodwyrm finish the job.”

“Go away, Remus.”

“No, I don’t think I will,” he said, rocking a little on the sill.

Virgil glared at him, but he couldn’t deny the streak of fear coursing through him. He knew it would only be a matter of time before Remus realized that Virgil couldn’t fight back anymore. 

His grin stretched. “What’re you gonna do? Cry really hard? You know, I heard that if you stomp on the ground and say his name four times, he’ll show up.” 

Virgil stalked away, off to the river to clean himself up. He heard the crunch of Remus hopping out of the window and tromping through the snow after him. Virgil may not be able to fight back with magic anymore, but he was still taller than Remus by two and a half feet. That had to mean _ something, _right?

Virgil knelt in the snow at the riverbed, quickly shucking off his stained tunic and dunking it in the water. If he were his normal self, he could have been rid of the stain in a matter of seconds with a few quick words. Now, he was shivering next to a river like… like a mortal human. 

He was a familiar. _ A magical creature. _ And yet in that moment by the river, with Remus tracking lewd pictures into the fresh snow only yards behind him, he’d never felt more human. 

“Kitty! Come check this out! Did I make the tits too big?” Remus shouted, apparently forgetting his previous engagement of pestering Virgil. “What am I saying? Tits can’t be too big. They are a bit lopsided, though.” He shrugged. “Points for realism, I guess.”

Virgil didn’t respond, shivering as the winter breeze swept over his bare shoulders. It was going to take forever for the fabric to dry if he hung it outside. Maybe he’d hang it by the fire, and keep a careful watch on Ursula’s bedroom door. 

His hands became numb and clumsy with cold as he wrung out his tunic. It still smelled like stew. 

He’d have to try and warm _ himself _ by the fire as well, if that didn’t attract too much attention.

Steeling himself, Virgil dipped his cupped hands into the stream and splashed his face with the icy water, working the tacky broth from his skin and hair. 

A ball of snow struck the back of his neck, and he nearly lost balance and fell into the water. 

Remus hooted triumphantly and sauntered over. “You know, I think I’m gonna miss your old self.”

Virgil glowered up at him. “What are you talking about?” 

Just as he said the words, something smooth and wet wrapped around his ankle. Virgil’s head filled with the glint of smooth gold scales and he scrambled back, managing to slip on the bank and tumble into the icy stream. 

“Old Virgil didn’t make it so easy,” he said, crinkling his nose. 

Seething, Virgil pulled the slimey black root from his ankle, and chucked it at Remus, who easily dodged. 

He started back toward the cottage. “See you inside, kitty-cat!”

Virgil stood, trying to still his shivering body and hammering heart. He retrieved his tunic from where it had landed in the snow, and made his way back to the cottage as well.

The cottage meant warmth and shelter from the elements.

But it also meant pain. And memories. And shame that hung around his neck like a chain.

Yes, it was in these moments Virgil felt more human than ever.

* * *

Six months later.

Virgil followed behind Ursula as his normal, four-legged self, watching her back and tensed shoulders. They hadn’t been back inside the Witchlands in decades. Not much had changed. 

Ursula fingered the charm she wore about her neck, something she'd spent months crafting for the express purpose of slipping past the banishment spell keeping her out of the Witchlands.

Remus walked beside Virgil, absentmindedly trying to grab his tail as it swished through the air. 

Ursula was in a bad mood. Primarily because the entire reason she’d needed the charm was so she could meet up with someone who apparently knew how to fix Virgil. 

He was proving more than a little inconvenient to say the least. 

They all rounded the side of a hill and found a quaint little log cabin nested among the trees. Smoke seeped from the chimney and warm light shine from the windows. 

Ursula stalked forward, pushing the door open without knocking.

A figure in a billowy green blouse, brown leather corset, and cotton pants looked up from her seat beside the fire. Her hair was the color of coal smoke and her eyes as amber as the setting sun. 

She smirked. “You know, Ursula, maybe if you had more manners—“

“Oh, shut up, Amaryllis. I need a favor.”

The other witch shut the book open on her lap. “A favor?”

Ursula scowled. “I broke you out of a demon-guarded dungeon, you know.”

Amaryllis winced at the word “demon.” Virgil guessed she must have similar, bad experiences with the beast. As did most people who crossed its path.

“More like blowing a hole in the wall and letting us take care of the rest,” she muttered. “Fine. What do you want?”

“My familiar’s broken,” she said, stepping aside and gesturing to Virgil. 

“Really?” Amaryllis said, looking between Remus and Virgil skeptically. “Which one is he?”

“Don’t be smart,” Ursula snapped.

Amaryllis rolled her eyes, then fixed her gaze on Virgil. His ears flattened against his head against his will, his tail dropping to the floor. He’d grown hateful of attention.

The black-haired witch looked at Ursula and Remus. “I’m going to need you two to step outside.”

“Are you serious?”

“As the constellation.”

“Whatever,” Ursula muttered, turning on her heel and pinning Virgil with a glare. He took half a step back, watching as both she and the hobgoblin left. 

Amaryllis grabbed her book and reopened it, leaning back into her chair. “Finally,” she sighed, touching her finger to her tongue and turning a page, “She’s such a terror, isn’t she?”

Virgil shifted, unsure of what to do. _ Should I shift to a human? _he thought. How would he talk with her otherwise? Unless, of course, she didn’t need to talk to him.

“Oh you’re quite alright the way you are, Virgil,” she said, not looking up from her book. 

Virgil stiffened. She knew his name! 

_ You can hear me? _

The witch’s eyebrows knit together. “Of course, I can. I’m a witch.”

_ You’re not _ my _ witch. _

“So? As long as you _ want _ me to hear you, I can. Jeez, did Ursula not teach you _ anything?” _

Virgil shrank. _ Sorry. _

Amaryllis’s eyes went wide. “What? No! I wasn’t mad at you, I’m angry with Ursula if nothing else.” Her voice went soft. “What has she filled your head with?”

_ Can we get onto the part where you fix me? _Virgil asked impatiently. The sooner he was out of the spotlight, the better.

“Okay,” she said, though she looked as if she was definitely _ not _okay with moving on. “What’s the problem?”

_ I can’t do magic anymore. _

“What do you mean?”

_ Other than shifting, I can’t do magic. It just doesn’t come out. Even shifting gets hard if I’m… upset… or something. _

“Do you have any idea why this is happening?”

_ …Yes. _

“Do you want to talk about it?”

_ No. _

Amaryllis’s eyes narrowed and Virgil’s pulse picked up. “Was it Ursula?”

_ No, _ he said, then carefully thought to just himself, _ though she certainly hasn’t helped. _

The witch set her book on the side table. “When was the last time you sat on someone’s lap?”

Virgil went still.

“Or let someone pet you? _ Any _type of affection?”

_ ...I don’t remember. _

Amaryllis patted her legs. “Would you like some?”

Virgil hesitated.

“You can say no, if you want,” she said. “Whatever you decide is fine by me.”

He padded forward slowly, fighting with himself inside. Yes, he wanted it, but at the same time his body was freaking out at being within range of her hands. Hands that could grab and tug and hit. How was this supposed to help him fix his problem?

Entirely too soon, he was at her knees and was faced with a decision. Biting back on his fear he leaped from the floor to her lap. He remained facing her as he sat down on her legs, but couldn’t bring himself to look at her, instead fixating on the arm of her chair. 

“Thank you for trusting me, Virgil. That was very brave of you.”

Virgil felt his throat grow right with emotion. He couldn’t cry as a cat—not the same as a human would, at least—but it would have been a close thing had he been in his other form. 

“Can I touch you? Feel free to say no,” she said. Virgil was shocked. She was being so _ gentle _ with him. It made sense, seeing as he was broken, but he wasn’t used to being asked permission for anything. 

_ Go ahead, _he said, still not meeting her eyes. He tried not to jump when the tips of her fingers grazed the fur along his spine, but his body jerked anyway. 

_ Sorry. _

“You don’t have to apologize,” she said, petting him again, this time with her full hand, scratching very softly. 

Virgil felt his eyes closing, a deep rumbling filling his chest. He greeted the purr joyfully, like a long lost friend he hadn’t seen in ages. 

Amaryllis stroked his back, his legs, his chest, even the side of his face. Virgil felt more relaxed than he had in… in a really long time, now that he thought about it. She ran her hand over the top of his head and down the back of his neck—

Every muscle in Virgil’s body tensed. He felt dizzy and suddenly weightless. Tossed through the air into a gaping, fanged maw…

Her hand left his fur immediately. “I’m sorry. I should have asked.”

He blinked, swallowing back the revulsion creeping up his throat. He shook his head. _ It wasn’t your fault. It was actually quite nice, _he said.

She smiled softly. “Your claws are buried in my legs, Virgil. I think that’s a pretty clear sign you aren’t alright.”

He looked down and saw with mounting horror that she was right. He’d _ hurt _ her. He retracted his claws as fast as he could, scrambling back off her lap. She didn’t try to grab him, which he was a little thankful for.

_ I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, _ he blurted, ears pressed flat.

“I assure you, I’m fine. Look, I’m barely bleeding. It was just a scratch.”

He’d made her _ bleed _ . Oh, Ursula was going to _ kill him. _

_ We need to leave soon, _ he said, glancing nervously at the door. _ Can you help me get my magic back, or not? _

Amaryllis looked at him sadly, but stood and said, “Yes, I can.” She rummaged through a few of her things before pulling out… a button? It was black and oblong, with purple swirls spiraling toward its center.

_ What’s that supposed to do? _

“It’s a talisman—well, not yet, but I’ll make it one in a minute. It’s sort of like a link, connecting you to the magic you lost.” She lifted a finger. “Now, this doesn’t _ fix _ anything. Without it, you’ll remain as you are until you go through the much longer process of actually healing.”

_ But I’ll be able to do magic again? _

“Yes,” she said, almost sadly. “You will do magic again.” 

The witch fixed the button to a chain, looped it around his neck and chanted sweetly, “_ Stitch the soul and patch the heart that power never again shall part. As long as round the neck you wear, this talisman shall your load bear.” _

Virgil felt something click back into place inside of him and he couldn’t help but give a content little sigh. 

Amaryllis stood and opened the door without another word. Remus was a little ways off chucking pebbles at birds. Ursula stood from her seat on the front steps, looking between them. 

“Well?”

“He should be fine, now. Just make sure he keeps the talisman with him all the time,” Amaryllis said.

Ursula left with little thanks, Virgil trailing after her.

Virgil’s life would not get easier, but he would never forget the kind witch of the woods who reminded him what it was like to be loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amaryllis was the witch that taught Dorian how to turn human again.


	17. the work of the world is common as mud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patton dusts off his old negotiation skills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: panic attack, mild violence
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from "To be of use" by Margie Piercy.

Patton stood motionless in one of the many janitorial closets at _ Baker’s Retired Living Community, _ chewing on his bottom lip absently. He didn’t mean to be slacking off, but his life had just become irrevocably strange, and he was still trying to digest it all. Giant talking snakes, amulets that could bring back the dead, witches, familiars, _ magic. _ Heck, Roman had _ died _ last night. Not to mention he finally had a label for the specific kind of freak he was. _ Sibyl. _ It didn’t sound too bad. In fact, it almost had a nice ring to it. 

The closet door opened, and Dot jumped in surprise. “Oh! Patton, what are you doing in here?”

Patton whirled, mouth ticking up into his usual smile. “Nothing. Just looking for… ah! There it is,” he said, grabbing a random bottle of cleaner off the shelf. 

“I can clean up whatever mess it is, kiddo,” Dot said with a smile, taking the bottle from him. “Your shift was over half an hour ago. Why don’t you head home?”

Patton swallowed. Why was he so nervous? Just because he had a name for his secret didn’t make it any different from all the years he’d hidden it from her up until now. _ Yeah, but now it’s also Virgil’s secret. And Roman’s secret. And Logan’s secret, _he thought. 

Dot’s expression softened. “Honey, are you doing okay? You haven’t been yourself the past couple of days.” 

“Oh, yeah. I’m totally fine, Mom,” he laughed, exiting the closet. Dot closed the door behind him, unimpressed. 

“Patton Timothy Baker, how many times have I told you not to lie to me?” she said, hand on her hip. Her words sent unsavory memories rippling through him. He lied all the time. She only caught him when he secretly wanted her to. Merri had taught him better than to be caught in a lie.

Patton put on a serious face and placed both hands on his mother’s shoulders, meeting her eyes. “Mom, I swear I’m doing just fine.”

“Okay,” she relented. “Oh! I made some cookies the other day. I want you to take some to the rest of the boys, okay?”

“Alright,” Patton said with a smile that looked easy and pecked her on the cheek. It wasn’t hard to lie to her, and he hated himself for it. With the others, they’d only been living together for a few years, and they each picked up on different things, making it harder to slip things by them. Patton had been lying to Dot for just short of a decade, now. But it made her happy to see him happy, so he put on a smile and told her he was fine.

* * *

Patton walked home, despite all of his mother’s protests. Roman had dropped him off, since Logan had taken their shared car to work. Patton would usually have called Roman to come get him, but he was needing some time to think things through without people wondering why he was being so quiet. 

Wakeby’s nightlife was just kicking into gear, though it wasn’t anything to call home about. Most of the people out at night were high schoolers hanging out with friends at the arcades, or old couples dancing on the outdoor patio of the one Italian restaurant in town. It was peaceful, but most of all it was _ quiet. _

Patton thought about a lot of things. What would he dream of tonight? How were Roman and Virgil doing? Had Roman officially forgiven him for what he’d done? What was Logan going to do once the school year started? If they were still figuring out this thing with Roman and that witch, Patton doubted Logan would miss it for anything. But what toll would quitting his dream job take? 

Oily, tangy smells wafted out of the single Chinese restaurant Wakeby had to offer. Patton looked up. It was packed with a bunch of theatre kids celebrating some performance they’d done, their enthusiastic re-singing of one of the songs leaking through the door. Patton smiled. He remembered when Roman had been one of those kids. Smiling and laughing and singing at the top of his lungs no matter who was watching. 

A crash sounded from the alley a few steps ahead of him, and Patton grew still. His brain kicked into a steady calculation of risk, even though he knew it was probably just a raccoon. Some habits were harder to kick than others. 

Low muttering and cursing reached Patton’s ears as he continued down the sidewalk, appearing as if he hadn’t noticed. So it wasn’t an animal. Definitely a person. Maybe a worker had knocked over a…

Patton stopped. He’d only been looking out of the corner of his eye, but upon seeing the small frame digging through the trash, his heart clenched and he’d stopped. It looked like a child. Patton ground his teeth, desperate to keep his mind in the present and away from the alleys and dumpsters of his youth. 

“Hello?” he called softly, not wanting to spook the child. “I’m not going to hurt you. Do you need help?”

The small figure straightened, its back to him, wiping grime off its clothes. “I don’t think I’ll be needing _ your _ help, Sunshine. Move along.” 

Patton made an involuntary noise of surprise and took a step back. 

“What’s wrong, sibyl? Never seen a hobgoblin before?” the creature sneered—that’s exactly what it was. A creature. Not human by any means. Short, like a child, but with olive green skin turned muddy from trash and grime. Pupilless black eyes, a mouth lined with yellow fangs, and two floppy ears—almost like a dog. _ Hobgoblin_. Patton’s mind reeled. 

“How do you know I’m a sibyl?” he asked dumbly, still trying to figure out what he was supposed to do. 

The hobgoblin laughed. “Are you serious? You’re practically _ glowing _ with it,” he gestured to all of Patton. His nose crinkled. “Geez, you smell like an oracle, too. What’d you do, roll around in a sacred temple or something? Ooh, whatcha got there?” he said, bounding toward Patton and pointing at the seran-wrapped plate of cookies he was taking home. 

“Cookies,” Patton said, and several thoughts went through his mind at once. Whatever this creature was, it was obviously magical, so Virgil must know something about it. If not, he was sure Dorian could help them. Virgil had recently had his talisman stolen from him. There weren't too many magical creatures wandering the streets of Wakeby at the moment. How much was he willing to bet that this random goblin was the one who did it?

“Give ‘em to me,” the hobgoblin said, as if he expected Patton to light a candle and set him a fancy table as well. 

In a matter of seconds, Patton sank back into his old, street-hardened self, finding both comforting familiarity and a darkness he hadn’t indulged in for a long time. He held the plate a bit higher, out of the goblin’s reach. He cocked an eyebrow and stepped into the shadow of the alley. “Why would I give them to you? They’re mine.”

The hobgoblin scowled. “But I want them!”

Patton lifted the seran-wrap and took a long inhale. He had to make sure that the creature wanted them more than anything before making his move. “They all smell so good. I don’t know if I can share.”

“Forget sharing,” the goblin growled, reaching to his belt. “How about you give me the food, and I don’t stomp around in your innards like a puddle?” The creature took out a nasty-looking knife with a serrated edge. Patton sized him up without showing it on his face. He’d been a tall child, and remembered having to fight other feral children for scraps of food. Naturally, he was comfortable fighting people significantly shorter than he was.

“Whoa! Alright!” Patton said, his eyebrows shooting up. “Don’t hurt me, I’m just setting them down.” He slowly lowered into a crouch. Patton didn’t like being on eye-level with that knife, but Wakeby was a clean town and there weren’t too many loose planks of wood or pipe just laying around for him to use. Using the plate to hide his free hand, he closed his fist around several small pebbles. He would have liked loose dirt better, to get in the goblin’s eyes, but again... clean town. Patton also didn’t like how close the hobgoblin was. He wouldn’t have time for a proper wind up to his throw.

Before the creature could so much as take a step toward the plate, Patton flicked his wrist as hard as he could, pelting the hobgoblin’s face with the pebbles.

“Ack! What the—” he cried his hands flying up to shield his face. One of the pebbles had been sharp, and cut a thin line across the creature’s cheek. Black liquid oozed out.

Patton wasted no time. In reacting, the goblin had shifted focus from his knife hand to his face, giving Patton just the opening he needed to seize his wrist and stand up straight, pulling the hobgoblin up off the ground. 

“Hey!” he protested, kicking wildly. “Let me go, you stupid son of a pixie! What do you think you’re doing?” Patton squeezed his wrist. Not enough to break it, but enough to get his attention and keep him from trying anything funny.

“Now, that wasn’t a very nice thing to say,” he tutted, shaking the goblin a little.

“Okay! I’ll drop the—”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Patton said, prying the knife from the goblin’s hand himself. He’d been stabbed too many times when children with broken teeth and sharp nails agreed to “drop the knife” only to catch it with their other hand and stick him in the stomach. He was just lucky that Merri’s aunt never questioned where all of her first-aid kits disappeared off to whenever she replaced them. It was what had gotten him good at sewing stitches in the first place—better than Merri, though she’d never admitted it. 

The knife was weighty, and far nicer than any weapon he’d used before. Most of his knives had been rusted blades with duct tape for handles.

Fully aware that he was turning his attention away from his enemy, Patton glanced behind himself briefly. This was really not a good position for someone to walk in on him. He’d hate to have to explain to some old couple why he was accosting a small green man behind a Chinese restaurant. Patton felt his arm dip as the goblin’s weight shifted. The creature’s legs wrapped around his arm, leveraging on either side of his elbow. Patton turned back around in a flash and pressed the knife-tip under the hobgoblin’s chin. The flesh was soft, and Patton could tell that he was dangerously close to breaking skin. 

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t break my arm,” Patton said as the goblin grew deathly still. 

“I’ll let go if you do,” he growled. 

Patton smiled. “How about you let go, and I don’t run this knife through your skull, hm? Sound like a fair trade?”

The creature grumbled, but released his legs from around Patton's arm. "Alright, now put me down!"

"What's your name?" Patton asked instead, keeping his grip on the goblin's wrist firm. 

He glowered at Patton. "Remus."

"Good," Patton said, lowering him to the ground but retaining his hold. "Now, a friend of mine lost something very important not too long ago. You wouldn't happen to know what happened to a magical talisman in the past couple days, would you?"

"Up yours, freakshow. I ain't talking," he spat. If Patton hadn't been in the state of mind he was currently in, he would have reacted to being called _ freakshow. _ Now, he just bit it inside of his cheek, narrowed his eyes, and squeezed. Remus's eyes went wide. 

_ Snap. _

The gobin let out a yelp of pain, baring his sharp yellow teeth in a grimace. Something nagged at the back of Patton's mind. _ What are you doing? Are you seriously going to torture this creature? _ Patton set his jaw. Now was not the time for being soft and sensitive. _ You're doing this for Virgil, _ he told himself. _ Besides, you've done much worse than a broken wrist. This is nothing. _

"What kind of crazy sibyl _ are _ you?" Remus gasped. 

"The kind that doesn't like having his friends messed with," he replied, loosening his grip ever so slightly. "Give me the talisman."

"I don't have it."

"I'll break your arm next."

"I don't have it _ with me! _But I can get it!" Remus said quickly, sweat beading on his pea-green forehead. "I'll get it for you, I swear!" 

Patton hummed. "You know, I don't think I believe you. Where is it?" 

Remus paled. "The trees lining that big black road just outside of town."

_ The highway?_ It was plausible that the goblin had been squatting out there, out of reach of random townsfolk. It was also quite possible that he was sending him on some fruitless goose-chase just to escape. "Alright. Take me there."

He released Remus's wrist, keeping a firm grip on his new knife. The hobgoblin cradled his arm against his chest, whispering curses against humans. 

"Fine," Remus snapped as he guided Patton deeper into the shadows. "Just keep that knife to yourself."

"No promises," Patton said, and felt his chest seize. The words had slipped out without him even thinking. How could he _ say _ something like that? He thought of what any one of his roommates would think if they saw him like this. Patton was reminded all at once why he'd decided to hide who he'd been for half of his life. He was _ scary. _

* * *

An hour later...

"Hey, has anyone seen Patton?" Roman asked, padding across the kitchen in his bare feet.

Logan looked up from the book he was reading at the counter. "I haven't seen him. Wasn't he at work?"

Roman grabbed his phone, checking the time. "His shift ended a while ago, but he didn't text me to come pick him up. Do you think everything's okay?"

Virgil glanced over nervously from his spot on the living room couch, but said nothing. Logan placed his bookmark. "Patton's been known to stay after on occasion. He and his mother often have lengthy conversations, since he no longer lives at home."

"I'm going to text him anyway," Roman muttered, typing out a quick message. 

_ Hey, you didn't ask for a ride home. Everything ok? _

He closed his phone and set it on the counter. Roman rested his elbows on the counter and put his chin in one hand. He glanced and saw the amulet sitting dormant on the dining table a few feet away. It was almost like it was laughing at him. _ Stupid little prince thinks he can outwit the Dragon Witch that easily. _He tapped out a quick rhythm with his fingers, then got bored and stood up again, pacing around the kitchen. 

Logan cocked an eyebrow. "Something the matter, Roman?"

"It's nine o'clock."

"Indeed. Is there something special about that particular hour of the day?"

Roman brought his fist to his mouth, gnawing on the back of his thumb. "It isn't day. It's night. Almost midnight. I should... I mean, I'd _ usually _ be in bed by now, trying to get enough sleep." 

"The curse is broken, Roman."

"I know it is."

"Then why—"

_"I don't know!"_ Roman shouted, a painful laugh bubbling out of him. "I don't know how any of this works, but somehow I know it won't, and I _swear if I have to look at that _**_stupid amulet one more time—"_** Roman seethed, grabbing at his hair.

Logan nearly fell out of his seat, going pale. "What was that?"

** _"What was what?" _ ** Roman spat and Logan jumped again. Why was he so _ angry _ all of a sudden? It felt like everything was too close, too bright, and just _ wrong. _ He suddenly hated the feeling of the floor against the skin of his feet. He wanted to punch a wall. _ Something. _

"His core's showing," Virgil said, standing up. Logan took a few steps back. Even that infuriated Roman. Why was he backing away? Why didn't he back away farther? Why was the carpet the wrong color? Why, why, _ why? _ Roman couldn’t breathe. He was gasping for air but he couldn’t _ breathe. He was dying again. He was _ ** _dying again!_ **

“Roman?” Virgil said slowly, taking a few steps forward. Roman backed himself up against the fridge. He slid down to a seat and hid his face in his knees. Everything was wrong. _ He _ was wrong. Everything about him was wrong, and he couldn’t figure out why. _ The curse is broken. _He told himself that over and over, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. 

The lights went out. Roman hiccuped and opened his eyes, but it was only Virgil’s jacket draped over him. The air became warm and pleasant. It smelled of pine and dirt roads. Of Virgil.

He felt Virgil sit next to him, their shoulders pressing together. Roman leaned into the comfort, losing himself in the warmth, the smells, the closeness of his friend. He curled against Virgil, resting his head against his chest. He could hear Virgil’s heartbeat through his shirt. 

_ Alive, _ he thought, visibly relaxing. _ Alive… _

He felt Logan lower to a seat next to him and reached out from under the jacket to grab for his other friend’s hand. Logan grasped his searching fingers, but Roman circumvented his hand and latched onto his wrist, pressing his fingers just under Logan’s thumb and feeling for his pulse. 

Roman could have cried when he finally felt the steady beat beneath the pads of his fingers, pathetic as it may seem. They were both alive—and so was he. He was alive and he would continue to be for many more years. 

Virgil pinched the edge of his jacket and lifted it so he could see Roman’s tear-stained face. “Better?”

Roman sniffed. “Yeah.” He pulled the jacket down from over his head, fiddling with the seams. Roman finally understood why Virgil loved this thing so much. “Sorry,” he said, laughing wetly and retracting his hand from Logan’s wrist. “I freaked out a bit, there.” 

“Don’t apologize,” Virgil said, almost harshly. Roman's eyebrows shot up. Virgil seemed to catch himself and his expression softened. He leaned his head back against the fridge and muttered, “You shouldn’t have to apologize for being upset.” 

“Virgil’s right,” Logan said, placing a hand on Roman’s knee. “You went through something that very few people can even comprehend. It is understandable that you would be experiencing some stress, even after the incident occured.” 

"Thanks, guys," Roman said. His phone vibrated where it sat on the counter and he shot to his feet. "It's Patton." 

Virgil stood. "What did he say?"

_"Almost home." _

"That's it?" Virgil wondered, looking over Roman's shoulder.

Logan stood as well, straightening his shirt. "See? I told you—" he cut off as they all heard the sound of the exterior cellar doors slamming shut outside. 

Roman looked at the other two, confused. "What was that?"

"Is someone out back?" Virgil mumbled, walking over to the window. 

Without warning, Patton burst in through the door to the backyard. He was breathing heavy, and four thin red lines were gouged into his cheek as if something had scratched his face. _"Virgil!_ Can you trap Remus in the cellar with some magic? I'm pretty sure a broom stuck between the handles won't hold him long."

Virgil paled. "What?"

"I have your talisman," Patton continued, reaching in his pocket and tossing a small object at Virgil. He dashed through the house. "Is the inside cellar door locked?"

"Patton, _what is going on?"_ Roman demanded, chasing after him. 

"Come on, Virgil! We need some magic barriers up around the cellar _now, _unless you want him escaping!" Patton shouted, testing the lock on the door leading to the basement. Roman jumped as something on the opposite side of the door rammed against it, scratching the wood wildly and growling in some unintelligible language.

Patton had a wild look in his eye, still breathing hard. He touched his cheek. "He's a nasty one, I'll give him that."

"Patton? What are you talking about? Who's Remus?" Roman asked. Patton blinked, as if he were seeing him for the first time, and a look of pure dread passed over him. He opened his mouth to say something, but Virgil pushed between them, something clutched in his fist. 

"I need rosemary and something to write with. Chalk, a marker, something."

Logan was at their sides instantly, holding out a black permanent marker. Virgil snatched it from him, pulled the cap off with his teeth, and began scrawling across the wood floor. "Roman! Grab some rosemary," he ordered and despite his confusion, Roman complied. He dashed off to the pantry, frantically searching for the herb. 

"Patton! Where's the rosemary?!"

"Um... third cabinet left of the sink!" he called back. 

"These are bowls and plates!" Roman shouted desperately. How come Patton was simultaneously the only one who knew where anything was in the kitchen and had absolutely no clue where a single thing could be found? The basement door shuddered as something threw its entire weight against it. Roman heard the splintering of wood. 

"_Right_ of the sink! I meant right!"

"Hurry, guys!" Virgil barked. Roman nearly slipped and cracked his head open as he fumbled for the opposite cupboard. He wrenched it open and was met with an absolute mess of small bottles and jars of herbs. Roman didn't care, he just started grabbing plastic containers and throwing them over his shoulder. 

"Found it!" he crowed, holding the ground rosemary above his head like a trophy and racing back to the cellar door. Virgil had drawn an intricate circle with various shapes and symbols throughout. Roman tossed him the rosemary and Virgil tore the lid clean off, dumping the entire thing on top of the sigil. 

Virgil thrust his hand into the middle of the powder and the markings shone bright violet, washing them all in a purple hue. The air pressure dropped, and Roman's ears popped. 

"_**Actuyê-sa ve mazhije tanah hielch isch tem!" **_

Virgil's words reverberated around the room, rattling inside Roman's ribcage like a bass drum. The familiar's face was alight with bright violet light, an unabashed grin splitting across his face as he spoke. Roman could practically feel the magic crackling off of him like static.

_ **"Nimó-ah tchi ve üftahri dehl FRICHTA GHI DJEL!"** _

Virgil finished the spell and a sound like a thunderclap split the air, and the light exploded, blinding Roman for a split second. When he opened his eyes again, there was a symbol that looked like a mixture of an ampersand and a dollar sign seared into the door. They all stood in silence, staring at it. Virgil was panting, still clutching something in his fist. An absolutely giddy laugh broke out of him, and Roman thought it was the prettiest thing he'd ever heard. Still high on adrenaline, Virgil turned to Patton, grabbed his face, and kissed him right on the mouth. 

Logan made a noise of surprise and Roman felt his face grow hot. When Virgil pulled away, Patton looked just as red, if not more so. If Virgil was embarrassed, it was completely overshadowed by his pure joy. He held up the small object. It was a button, black with purple spirals. 

"Your talisman?" Logan asked, his voice sounding particularly hoarse.

Virgil nodded, that ear-splitting smile on his face. Roman would have thought he would have been more surprised at Virgil kissing Patton, maybe even jealous, but he couldn't get over that smile. Virgil definitely needed to smile more. 

Patton still sat on the ground, fingers at his lips, looking dazed. 

"You okay, padre?" Roman asked, walking over to him. 

"Wha—? Oh, uh, yeah," he said, flushing even more. 

"Are you sure? Those scratches look like they hurt. Maybe Lo should take a look at them."

"They aren't deep enough for stitches," Patton said, almost compulsively. He flinched at his words, looking away. 

"What was that?" Logan asked Virgil. "Last time you did magic, you spoke in English."

"Witchtongue," Virgil said, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. "It's harder to use, but makes spells stronger." 

Roman helped Patton to his feet, and turned to Virgil. "Sounds like you're in a good mood."

Virgil beamed. "What it sounds like is that we've finally got a fighting chance against Ursula."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May we have a moment of silence for the loss of dear Dot Baker’s plate of cookies, sitting alone in an alley behind a Chinese a restaurant.


	18. to get burnt by an imitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ursula makes an unwelcome call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: pain, brief verbal abuse
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from "A Promise" by Ernestine Northover.

_So many variables, _Logan thought, knocking the back of his head against the wall. He’d been sitting on the floor outside the cellar door for who knows how long now, mulling over the plan Virgil had proposed. 

“She’ll be back any day now,” he’d explained. “After doing strong magic like that again, I’d be surprised if she wasn’t curious. We’ll have to ambush her. As far as she knows, the curse is still active. She doesn’t have any reason to suspect that Dorian will be on our side.”

“That’s assuming he’s willing to help out,” Roman had pointed out. “The whole reason he accepted the deal was so he _wouldn’t_ have to battle Ursula. I would.”

“We all would,” Patton corrected. 

Logan had remained all but silent throughout the process. The others let him be, under the pretence of “intense brainstorming,” but in reality, he was drawing a blank. 

He knew nothing about Ursula or her powers, though from what Virgil had described, she sounded pretty invincible. Roman had supposed powers, but knew next to nothing about how they worked, Patton’s ability was more of a passive talent than a weapon, and Virgil was too high on the excitement of having his talisman back to think up a proper, coherent plan. Logan had stepped away, claiming he needed time to think things through—which wasn’t a total lie—and had ended up sitting in the hallway, thinking of nothing. 

His eyes flitted over the symbol scorched into the door, its faint purple light pulsing every few seconds. 

_Is no one in this house normal aside from Logan?_

He snorted at the memory of Roman’s words. _Normal _might be an objective term, but _useless_ wasn’t. He knew any sort of plan that had even a chance of success didn’t involve him. He didn’t have magic. He didn’t have a year’s worth of experience fighting a demon. He had no supernatural ability to tell the future. 

Logan was an elementary school teacher. He was that loser from the next class over who thought that looking at bugs during lunch hour was more interesting than talking to real people. He wasn’t a brave knight ready to defend his friend’s honor to an immortal witch. 

The only thing he was good at was logic. Being ruthlessly objective. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that he shouldn’t attend the mission. Really, he shouldn’t be involved at all. 

_Right. So stop being a baby about it and go tell them,_ he thought harshly. 

Stuffing down the dread mounting inside of him, Logan forced himself to his feet and back into the living room. 

Things had quieted down after the fiasco that was trapping a goblin in their cellar. Virgil had only given them the barest of details: he was Ursula’s henchman, powerful when he wanted to be, and a total jerk. Now that Virgil’s secret was out, however, he seemed content to roam the house in his feline form. Patton followed him around, making casual conversation despite the fact that Virgil was incapable of replying. The four thin gashes Remus had clawed into his cheek stood out against Patton’s otherwise blemish-free face. He looked like a walking oxymoron. Such a sweet, harmless person looking like he’d tangled with a raccoon over scraps of garbage. Patton had several small scars on his hands, but he’d explained that they were from accidents with hot glue guns and X-Acto knives while crafting with Dot. 

“I’m too clumsy for my own good,” he’d say with a shrug and a laugh. Logan would fail to mention the fact that Patton almost never wore short sleeves, and the sneaking suspicion he had that his friend was hiding something. _Or maybe he just likes cardigans. Stop being so paranoid._

Roman sat on one of the kitchen stools, a mug of tea Patton had prepared held close to his chest. His knee bounced restlessly as he stared at the ruby-red amulet on the counter in front of him, like he was waiting for it to jump out and bite him. His sun-tanned skin from the summer was starting to fade, which also meant the disappearance of Roman’s annual freckles. He always seemed to develop them in a swath across his nose, making him and Patton look almost related. 

Logan blinked, realizing he’d been staring, and walked over. He pulled out the other stool and took a seat. Roman’s head twitched in his direction, like he’d recognized that Logan was there, but couldn’t quite pull himself out of whatever deep thoughts he’d been wading through. His shoulders were tense again. 

Logan leaned over. “What tea is that?”

“Lavender.”

“Have you had any of it?”

“No.”

Logan reached out and grabbed the amulet.

Roman’s knuckles went white.

Logan held the jewel up to the light, examining it. “I think we should throw this thing away.”

“But I… need it,” he said, tripping on the words coming out of his mouth. 

Logan cocked an eyebrow. “Really? I would think you’d want nothing more to do with it.”

Roman tapped a nail against the mug. “Well, yeah, I hate it. But that doesn’t mean we’re not going to need it when we go up against Ursula.”

“Speaking of which, I’ve come to a conclusion,” Logan said, setting the amulet down. Roman relaxed a bit. 

“What’s that?”

“You all will be much better off without me on this mission.”

Patton looked up from the corner of the living room, Virgil trotting easily across the back of the couch. He put his hands on his hips. “What is this wacky talk? Lo, weren’t you the one who wanted us all to stick together from now on?”

“Well, yes,” Logan admitted, “but I’m merely being objective. I don’t have any special skills to contribute, have no unique knowledge about the enemy, and will only be a hindrance to you three.”

Virgil leaped to the ground and resumed his human form, something Logan was still trying to get used to. “You aren’t useless, Logan. You contribute plenty.”

“Well…” Roman said. Virgil shot him an incredulous look. “No! Of course Logan isn’t useless. That’s not what I mean at all,” he amended, holding out a hand. “All I’m saying is that Logan might have a point. Virgil’s the most powerful one here, and I’m what this whole thing is about, not to mention I have a lot more experience with… this kind of stuff.”

“What about me? You can’t possibly think I’m more helpful than Logan, can you?” Patton demanded. “Unless you want me sleeping through the battle, there’s really not much I can offer either.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Virgil said. “You have inherent magic in you, so you can see the truth of things no matter what.”

“The truth of things?” 

“That’s how you were able to see Remus and talk to him,” he explained, looking slightly uncomfortable at the amount of attention on him. “Magical creatures like him, or even some spells can be hidden from mortal eyes—like the spell on the cellar door. If… If I wanted to, I could make it so Logan couldn’t see any of it,” he finished haltingly as Logan’s expression wilted. 

“It’s settled, then,” Logan said, though it pained him. This was Roman’s curse all over again, except now, he would be sitting at home, alone in the dark, waiting for _three _of his best friends to return hopefully in one piece. 

“No!” Patton cried, looking desperate. “Virgil, if Ursula’s really so powerful, who’s to say she doesn’t come and attack the house while we’re out looking for her? If she’s seen through your eyes like you say she has, then she knows all of our faces. Logan would be alone. We’re safer if we all stay together.”

Logan sighed. “Patton—”

“No, he has a point,” Virgil cut in. “That does seem like something she’d do. I agree with Patton. We can keep each other safer if we’re all together.” 

Roman bit his lip. “Okay... I still don’t like it, but you know her best, Virge. So, if you think we’ll be better off together, I’ll go with it.” 

“I won’t be dead weight for you guys to carry around,” Logan implored. 

Roman put a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll definitely be more dead than weight if you stay here alone, Lo. Trust us on this. Besides,” he said, his face ticking up into that perfect smile that hid his fear, “I wouldn’t want you anywhere else. You know that, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, Roman.” _There. We’ll lie to each other and call it even. _

Virgil suddenly swayed. He squeezed his eyes shut and grabbed Roman’s shoulder, steadying himself. 

Patton’s smile vanished. “Virgil? What’s wrong?”

He shook his head, grimacing. “It’s Ursula. She’s—_gah!” _Virgil cried out, clutching his head. 

“Here. Sit down,” Logan said, carefully guiding him to the dining table. Virgil collapsed into the seat and pressed his forehead against the tabletop, hands tangled in his hair. Logan watched helplessly as his friend whimpered through gritted teeth, trying to control his breathing. At least this feeling of uselessness wasn’t new. Though they now knew the source of Virgil’s sudden headaches, they’d seen him deal with them for years. Each time, the most all three of them could do was sit and keep him company through the worst of it. 

Patton placed a comforting hand on Virgil’s back, and Roman watched him suffer with a barely restrained rage burning behind his eyes. Virgil’s shoulder bunched, climbing toward his ears, his shoulder blades cutting sharp angles on his back. His breathing was short and shallow, punctuated by occasional groans or whimpers. 

It was strange, seeing Virgil like this after having just seen him so energetic and excited after using the full potential of his powers again. 

_“Stop it!”_ Virgil growled, bristling. Patton jerked his hand away, and Logan shot him a comforting look. Patton nodded, though he looked extremely conflicted. They all knew he wasn’t talking to them. Virgil began to tremble, and a strangled sob escaped his lips. Logan’s chest caught. This was getting bad. Worse than most other episodes he’d had. 

Patton made a soft, miserable sound.

Roman began pacing, shoulders starting to climb nearly as high as Virgil’s. His hand worked the air, like he was trying to grasp a weapon that wasn’t there. 

Something clicked in Logan’s head. Something about seeing his friends like this shoved whatever feelings of uselessness he’d had out of his mind. He may not be able to do much himself in the way of fighting Ursula, but he could support those who could. 

“Virgil, listen to me,” Logan said, lips inches from Virgil’s ear. “You can do this. I know you can. We have a plan, and we’re going to beat her.”

Virgil stilled, his trembling fading away. His shoulders relaxed, and he lifted his head. He turned and looked at Logan, a mirthy laugh bubbling out of him. Logan’s blood ran cold. 

“You think so, do you?” he said, his lips quirking into a confident smirk. 

“What…?” Logan managed through his fumbling mind. The dots were there, he just couldn't connect them. Or maybe he simply didn’t want to. Roman’s head snapped around at Virgil’s words and he stormed forward. 

“You leave _Virgil _**_alone,” _**he growled, his voice taking on that tone that made Logan’s skin crawl. Like nails on a chalkboard, but ten times worse. 

Virgil stood, the chair squeaking against the tile. His head cocked to the side. “My, my, little prince. You’ve grown, haven’t you! And it’s only been a year. How’s the curse holding up? Oh,” he chuckled, his voice lilting and patronizing, “you must be exhausted. Why don’t you **_sit down?”_ **Virgil pressed his palm against Roman’s chest. Violet light pulsed outward and Roman flew back into the cabinets. 

“Roman!” Patton cried rushing over. Virgil’s neck and arm spasmed, and he looked down at it, as if surprised. 

“You’ve gotten more powerful, kitty,” he muttered. “What did you do to poor Remus?”

“We killed him,” Logan said, hoping to hide the tremor in his voice. They couldn’t fight Ursula like this. Not when it was Virgil they’d really be hurting. 

Virgil’s attention snapped to him, a smile playing at his lips. “Really? _You?”_

“We all did,” Logan replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Patton has the scars to prove it.” 

Virgil glanced at Patton, who touched his wounds a little self-consciously. He shrugged. “Alright, maybe you did. Makes no difference. You, on the other hand,” he said, his hand shooting out and clamping around Logan’s throat. “Tell me this so-called plan of yours.”

Logan grabbed Virgil’s wrist, but couldn’t pull away. His grip was like iron, though he hadn’t cut off Logan’s airway… yet. 

_Remain calm. _“That would defeat the purpose.”

His nose wrinkled in a snarl. “I could snap your neck like a toothpick.” Virgil’s hand trembled, and he glanced at it angrily. Hope blossomed in Logan’s chest. 

“I know you’re in there Virgil.”

“Shut up, you useless mortal. What chance do any of you have against me?” he snapped, his hold tightening. Logan wheezed. “Roman’s the most powerful one here, and he can’t even access his own powers. You’re all weak.”

“Let him go!” Roman bellowed standing. 

Virgil threw back his head in a fit of laughter. “Or what? You’ll attack your friend? You can’t touch me, little prince.”

Roman paled. 

“You underestimate them,” Logan choked out, the pressure in his head building. 

Virgil pulled him closer, their faces inches apart. “Please, you’re the least interesting one here,” he sneered. “I’d kill you out of sheer boredom before you were anywhere close to an actual threat.”

“I know that,” Logan rasped. “But as long as _they’re_ here, you don’t have a chance. Roman is the strongest person I know. Patton is incredible, even if he won’t show it. And Virgil is stronger than _you.”_

“Really? Well, _I_ think it’s time you took a little nap,” Virgil growled, his lip curling. Instead of constricting, his fingers flew apart, releasing Logan—who collapsed to the ground, gasping and coughing. Virgil stumbled back, his whole frame shaking. 

“You insolent little whelp!” he screeched, his voice high and stringy. “Stop it! I _am your _**_witch! Worthless, undeserving SCUM YOU CAN’T—_**_” _Virgil’s voice cut out and his whole body sagged, like the strings holding him up had been cut. 

“Virgil?” Patton asked carefully. 

Virgil lifted his head, panting. He gave a shaky thumbs up, then his eyes promptly rolled up into his skull. Roman shot forward, catching him before he could collapse completely. 

Logan let out a sigh of relief, flopping onto his back and staring up that the ceiling. 

Yes, he might be useless, but he’d definitely be there to make sure his friends weren’t.


	19. ask me why i love you, dear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman falls asleep easily (for once)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title (and lyrics later in the chapter) are from "Ask Me Why I Love You" by Walter Everette Hawkins

_Dark, angry water swirled around Patton. It was too dark to see, and the only thing he heard was the muted crash of waves on the surface above him. Patton’s throat stung from the bitter salt water filling his nose and mouth. His limbs felt heavy and useless from the intense cold. By some miracle, Patton’s head broke the surface. He coughed and spluttered, gulping air. The sky was dark, and the sea was gray with storm. Waves taller than buildings swelled around him. _

“Logan!!”_ he screamed, but the wind whipped the sound of his voice away from him. He opened his mouth to call out again, but the wave before him crested. Impossible amounts of water slammed into him, sending him rolling beneath the waves once more. _

* * *

Roman sat cross-legged on his bed, staring at his hands lying limp in his lap. He’d tried to sleep, but couldn’t even stand having the lights off for more than a few minutes. Everything having to do with the dark was negative. The curse. Dying. Lying in bed, listening to his father sobbing angrily in the next room. It felt stupid. Pathetic. He was an adult now, but couldn’t handle a little darkness.

A strangled gasp and muffled thud sounded from the other side of Roman’s wall. The wall he shared with Patton. Concerned, Roman stood and padded out into the hallway, knocking softly on Patton’s door. 

“Everything okay in there, Padre?” he asked quietly, not wanting to wake the others. Logan and Virgil had been through quite the ordeal not too long ago and needed their rest. There was no answer, so Roman turned the handle and eased the door open. 

He poked his head inside. “Patton?” The room was dark. Roman hadn’t turned on the hall light, so he couldn’t see anything inside. 

“I’m fine,” Patton replied shakily, panting.

“You don’t sound fine.” 

“It was just a dream.” The lamp on Patton’s bedside table suddenly clicked on, and Roman saw that he’d fallen out of his bed, his blankets a tangled mess at his feet. 

Roman snorted. “I hope you understand that, coming from you, that isn’t a very reassuring statement.” He held out a hand and helped Patton to his feet. “What happened in your dream?”

Their hands lingered for just a moment. Patton pulled away, hugging his arms around his chest and angling away from Roman. “I was drowning. In the ocean, I think. I couldn’t see any land, but it was the middle of a storm, so I could have missed it. I think Logan was there, too.” 

“Oh,” Roman said lamely. “That _does_ sound bad. Do you know when it’s, you know… happening?”

“No. I rarely do.” 

“How’s your cheek doing?” he asked, hoping to lighten the mood a bit. Patton brushed his fingers across the four marks. They were beginning to scab over and the blood had dried into a near black crimson. 

“It’s fine. Doesn’t even hurt.” 

“You say that a lot.” 

Patton gave a confused smile. “Say what?”

“That everything’s fine.” 

He opened his mouth to retort, but Roman stuck him with a meaningful look. If anyone was familiar with that exact avoidance tactic, it was him. Patton’s resolve crumbled. 

He clambered onto his bed and sat back against the headboard, wrapping his arms around his pillow and resting his chin on it. “This whole last year, did you ever… worry about changing?”

Roman sat down on the edge of the bed. “What do you mean?”

Patton looked away. “Like, if everyone was only friends with the person you pretended to be, would they be disappointed if you were suddenly yourself? What if the real you was a completely different person?”

Roman leaned back on his arms, looking up at the ceiling thoughtfully. “I did worry about that. Still do. But no one stays the same forever, right? People change.” He glanced over at Patton, who looked like he was about to vomit. The questions were pretty specific, and Roman didn’t have to guess that Patton was subtly talking about himself. Still, he had the courtesy to say, “Why do you ask?”

“If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell the others? At—at least until I’m ready?”

“Of course.” Roman practically _had _to keep his secret—not that he wasn’t planning on it. After all, he’d be the hypocrite of the century if he didn’t. 

Patton took a breath. “When Dot adopted me, I was thirteen. Back then, I was a different person. I was mean, and distrusting, and cynical. Dot was so nice and kind. I—I knew she deserved someone better. So, I made a character, and played a part. I became a perpetually happy child who made witty jokes and called everyone _kiddo. _I made Dot a proud mother, or at least I tried to.” 

“Sounds exhausting,” Roman said. Though he was beginning to find he knew very little about his friend, he couldn’t help but feel sympathy for him. He, too, had once put on an act in the vain hope of restoring his father to the way he’d been before his mother had died. It hadn’t worked too well.

“It was, for a while,” Patton admitted. “But after a year or so, I managed to forget my past. The horrible things that had happened to me. I sort of _became_ the character I’d made, and now… I’m not sure which is really me anymore.” 

Roman hesitated. He wanted to say the right thing here, but he wasn’t nearly as eloquent as Logan. “If I ended up changing because of dying and coming back, would you think any different of me?”

Patton looked up, incredulous. “Of course not!” 

“Then why would you think any one of us would feel that way about you?”

Patton opened, then closed his mouth, looking away. 

“I won’t speak for Logan or Virgil,” he continued, returning his gaze to the ceiling, “but I’d be shocked if they did anything but accept you for who you are. I know I do.” 

Patton gave an aborted smile, not hugging himself quite as tightly as before. “Thanks, Ro. Sorry I woke you up.” 

“Oh, it’s fine. I wasn’t sleeping, anyway.” 

“It’s, like, four in the morning,” Patton said, glancing at his clock. 

Now it was Roman’s turn to feel uncomfortable. He quickly discarded the immediate idea of lying to Patton and telling him that he simply wasn’t tired, especially after he’d been so open about his own problems. “I, uh, can’t really bring myself to sit alone in the dark. It’s… too much like dying.”

“Have you tried sleeping with the lights on?”

Roman laughed dryly. “Yeah. Aside from sending our power bill through the roof, it doesn’t work too well. I just end up pulling the blanket over my head, and then we have the same problem with the dark.” 

“You know,” Patton started softly, stretching his legs out, “there was a nasty part of my past that I had forgotten for a long time—some sort of defense mechanism, I guess. It wasn’t until I’d lived with Dot for several months, my mind felt safe enough to let me remember. I had horrible nightmares almost every night. In between these nightmares and my own prophetic dreams, I was so terrified of sleeping I’d get physically sick.” The words came easier than they had before, Patton’s face less an expression of shame than one of melancholy nostalgia. Somehow, he seemed older than he was. He and Roman were the same age, but because of the overly cheery disposition and goofy jokes, Roman typically thought of him as the youngest of their group. Now, he looked as if the years of his life were spread across his eyes. 

“Dot would sit by my bed every single night, trace her fingers across my palm, and sing me to sleep,” he finished, meeting Roman’s eye. “I’d be happy to see if it’ll help you.” 

Roman flushed. “Wha—really? You think it’ll work?” 

Patton shrugged, putting his pillow aside and swinging his legs off the side of his bed. “No harm in trying, right?” Roman blinked, finding himself waiting for the obligatory “kiddo” or pun so bad it stung his eyes at the end of his statement, but it didn’t come. Patton gave a soft, genuine smile and stood. Roman followed him out of the room and into his own, struggling to put a finger on exactly what was different about Patton. It was like going from a children’s animated film, with exaggerated expressions and sound effects, to live action. Things were felt just as deeply, but more subtly expressed. Patton seemed less like a character, and more like a real person. Not the carefree goofball, but not the cynical miscreant he claimed to be either. Somewhere in between. 

Roman’s room was infinitely messier than Patton’s, but he didn’t seem to mind, carefully stepping around the piles of clean laundry he’d meant to put away days ago, but still hadn’t. 

“I don’t want to keep you up,” Roman muttered. 

“I can’t sleep after one of my dreams, anyway,” Patton said, shrugging again. “Besides, I want to help.”

Roman settled into his bed, pulling the comforter up over his shoulder.

“Do you want me to leave the light on?”

“No.”

Patton switched it off, then crossed to his window, opening the shutters. “There. That way, when you wake up, hopefully it’ll be light enough to see.” He removed the several articles of clothing Roman had draped across his swivel chair and wheeled it over to his bedside. The ambient light from the streetlamps outside gave just enough light for Roman to make out Patton’s silhouette in the dark. 

“Give me your hand.”

Roman reached out from under the covers, and Patton took his hand in both of his own. Roman was immediately grateful he’d voted to keep the lights off. Otherwise, his furiously blushing face would have been in plain view. Patton’s hands weren’t soft, but they were gentle. 

“Any requests?” 

Roman snorted. “You choose.” 

“Hmm,” Patton hummed, beginning to trace the lines of Roman’s palm as he thought, sending shivers down Roman’s spine. “Oh! I’ve got one. Dot used to sing this one all the time,” he said, taking a short breath, then beginning:

“ _Ask me why I love you, dear,_

_and I will ask the rose_

_Why it loves the dead of Spring _

_At the Winter’s close;_

_Why the blossoms’ nectar'd sweets_

_Loved by questing bee—_

_I will gladly answer you,_

_If they answer me._ _”_

The melody was simple and common—something a million different lyrics could have been tacked onto and called a song—but the way Patton sang it made it sound like it had been written specifically for him. Not to mention Patton could _sing. _In the many years they’d all known each other, Roman could count on one hand the number of times any of them had heard Patton sing, most by accident. 

He continued with the next verse, singing:

_“_ _Ask me why I love you, dear, _

_I will ask the flower_

_Why it loves the Summer sun,_

_Or the Summer shower;_

_I will ask the lover’s heart_

_Why it loves the moon,_

_Or the star-besprinkled skies_

_In a night in June…_ _”_

Roman closed his eyes, focusing on the song and the circular patterns Patton traced against his palm. At first, he’d worried that the sudden intimacy of the experience would have kept him wide awake, but before too long, his mind grew slow and heavy, and his body felt weighed down. Somewhere in the back of his mind, something knew he should be panicking at Patton’s closeness, but the thoughts were whisked away as his friend continued singing. 

_“_ _Ask me why I love you, dear,_

_I will ask the vine_

_Why it’s tendrils trustingly _

_Round the oak entwine;_

_Why you love the mignonette_

_Better than the rue—_

_If you will but answer me,_

_I will answer you._ _”_

Roman’s breathing deepened. As he fell asleep, he would have thought Patton’s voice would fade further away, but instead it filled his head as he slowly drifted off. 


	20. as in the midst of battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything goes according to plan... until it doesn't.
> 
> Or, Dorian explores these curious mortal dwellings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: toxic relationships, mild gore/fighting
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from "Sonnet XXV" by George Santayana

Roman led his friends back into the forest, trying to ignore the sour feeling growing in his gut. It was high noon, and the sun filtered down through the trees in broken rays. The woods looked so different in the daytime. Almost beautiful. Despite how upset it would make them both, and the points to the contrary they’d posed, Roman still thought Patton and Logan would be safer away from the fight. Roman had learned to deal with dangerous situations with nothing but his own skills and quick thinking. Three more people, two of which that were far more vulnerable, increased the number of things he had to think about tenfold. Not to mention their plan was rather half-baked and incoherent at this point. Roman simply hoped that by the time they got to the meadow, the ideas would start coming. Ursula could show up at any moment. They had to be ready to act. 

Instead of worrying endlessly, Roman simply kept running over the handful of witchtongue phrases and words Virgil had taught him just in case things got hairy. _Be careful, _he’d admonished. _You don’t have control of your powers yet, so you can’t control how powerful each word’s going to be. It could be like setting off a bomb._

Behind him, Logan drilled Virgil about the magical properties of everyday substances, desperately trying to formulate some kind of attack strategy. 

“So, rosemary enhances magic?”

“Sort of,” said Virgil, struggling to explain. “It’s more like it concentrates it in one area. Keeps it from going wrong.” 

“Anything else? Something also available to us?”

Virgil stuffed his hands in his oversized pockets, thinking. Patton had his cardigan on, and even Logan wore a windbreaker. It _was _a little chilly, now that Roman thought about it, but he’d always run hot, even as a kid. He had his usual weapons strapped to his body, but aside from that, just a t-shirt and jeans. 

“Coffee puts us to sleep,” Virgil offered. 

“So _that’s_ why you never drink it!” Patton exclaimed. “Maybe we could blow a bunch in her face?” 

“It’s not a _tranquilizer,_” he amended. “More like melatonin. It just makes us drowsy and lethargic.” 

“We’re almost there,” Roman announced, but the three others were too engrossed in their planning to take notice. He didn’t mind. Roman wasn’t much of a planner. He was a shoot-and-stab first, come-up-with-brilliant-strategies later kind of guy.

As they walked, Roman let his mind wander to Dorian. Was he sleeping? If so, where was he?

A familiar tugging sensation filled his mind, and somehow, he just knew which direction Dorian was. Southeast, about three miles. The location popped into his mind just as easily as any one of his normal thoughts. It felt similar to how he’d found the Silkweed, and that strange sensation he’d felt that night outside the forest with the—

Roman audibly gasped, stopping in his tracks. Logan bumped into him. 

“Roman? What—”

“It was you!” he breathed, pointing at Virgil. 

Virgil paled, immediately nervous. “What was me?” 

“You were the cat that kept following me to the forest every night!”

Virgil relaxed a touch. “You’re just figuring this out _now?”_

“Well, I mean. Kinda. I guess I didn’t connect the two,” he said, flushing. “Whatever, let’s keep going. We’re almost there.” Roman turned around and continued plodding through the trees, trying to hide his embarrassment. He’d had full on mental breakdowns in front of that cat. He’d _talked about Virgil_ to it. It was comforting, and really sweet, actually—but also incredibly embarrassing. 

“Okay,” Logan began slowly, “back to the matter at hand, I guess. Are there any substances that have negative effects? Ones that we can use against Ursula?”

“I mean, iron’s a classic, but there isn’t much of that just lying around,” Virgil said. 

“What are its properties?”

“It cancels out magic.”

Logan sighed. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that, Virgil. What are the constraints? The parameters?” 

“Well,” Virgil said as they arrived at the meadow, “magic can’t pass through it. So, if someone was behind an iron door, or in an iron cage, no magic could get in or out. In the Witchlands, they use iron cuffs to bind prisoners.”

“And what of iron in a powder form? What if a person were to become covered in it?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve never seen it before. I guess it could cancel out their powers, but it wouldn’t be as concentrated as solid metal. My guess is it’ll simply destroy any control over their spells, or decrease their power.” 

They stopped in the middle of the clearing. 

“Fantastic,” Logan muttered to himself, staring at the ground, lost in thought. 

“Where are we supposed to get iron powder?” Patton asked. 

Logan squatted down, pressing his fingers into the dirt. “Right here. Virgil, do you know of any spells that could draw iron from the ground?”

“I’m sure I can figure something out,” he said with that same smile that crossed his face anytime the mention of performing magic was made. 

“Now, be careful,” Logan warned. “Iron is a necessary nutrient for plant life.” 

“Don’t kill the forest. Got it.” 

Roman watched as Virgil knelt down, pulling the talisman from his jacket pocket and placing a hand on the ground. He opened his mouth, then stopped, eyebrows knitting together. 

“What rhymes with _stone?”_

Logan brightened. “Tone, sloan, own, bone, zone—tome and roam are slant rhymes, but I’m sure they’ll work.”

“Disown,” Roman said. _Atone_ was also in there, but he refrained from offering that one. 

“Shown? Or known_?_” Patton chimed in.

“That’ll work,” Virgil said, and returned his attention to the ground. _“Seek and find the hidden stone, bring it hence and make it known.” _

The ground shuddered and beneath Virgil’s palm sprouted a pile of iron flecks, and a few larger pebbles. 

**“Jahsti,” **he said softly, that strange tone to his voice that made Roman’s heart race and fingers tingle. Logan flinched ever so slightly. The iron seemed to vibrate, and soon all the flecks and pebbles were reduced to a fine powder. There was only enough for a fistful, maybe less. 

“Wonderful,” Logan said, gathering the substance up in his hand. 

“So, what’s the plan?” Roman asked, unconsciously scanning the treeline. “We somehow get close enough to her to chuck the stuff in her face?”

“That’s a rather simplistic way of putting it, but yes,” Logan said. He had that look in his eye. The one that betrayed a million calculations and ideas finally coming together. 

A rare grin stretched across his face. “Patton, how fast can you run?”

* * *

Dorian lay on the top of a sheer cliff, bathing in the sunlight. Winter was approaching. He shuddered at the thought. Sure, he didn’t _need_ to be warm to live—just like he didn’t need to sleep, or eat, or breathe—but that didn’t mean he wasn’t able to enjoy one and hate another. The cold reminded him of his time in the dungeons. 

In his periphery, he could sense the little prince and his friends a few miles northwest of him. Perhaps they planned on confronting the Dragon Witch today? Dorian reveled in the fact that he couldn’t care less. Either they took care of his problem, or he got to kill Ursula _and _the little prince. 

Who he hadn’t become fond of in the least. 

Obviously. 

Under normal circumstances, Dorian wouldn’t have been so out in the open, let alone sunbathing atop a clifftop, letting his scales shine like beacons. Again, it felt good to have no worries. 

And yet, the little prince’s presence kept nagging at the back of his mind. What was their plan? How could they hope to defeat such a power with the prince so oblivious to his own? They had no chance, really. It was bound to end in disaster, and they’d no doubt come crawling to him for assistance. 

Which he wouldn’t offer. Under any circumstance. 

_This is ridiculous,_ Dorian thought, and in a snap of brilliant golden light, returned to his human form. He needed to clear his head.

* * *

Dorian stood at the treeline. Now that the curse was broken, he, too, should be able to leave the premises of the forest. Something that surely wasn’t fear curdled in the pit of his stomach. He’d never approached a human settlement before. Even while hunting Ursula all those centuries, he’d avoided the places as well he could. 

Steeling himself, Dorian stepped into the yellow-grass field separating the township from the forest. He would have expected some sort of reaction, even a tingle up his spine, but of course nothing did. He trudged through the field and slipped between two houses. The street was lined with residencies and nothing else._ The town square must be around here somewhere,_ he reasoned, and stepped out into the middle of the road. It was hard, like stone, but blackened and smelly, as if a dragon had scorched it with its breath. 

Clasping his hands behind his back, Dorian strode down the middle of the street. Small humans—even smaller than the little prince—rode past on strange two-wheeled contraptions, staring at him with open mouths. While Dorian knew that magicless mortals such as these could not see the scales marring the left side of his face, he wondered if they saw some other kind of deformation more familiar to them. A burn, perhaps?

They continued away from him, stopping behind one of the large metal machines that littered the sides of the street and peeking out at him. Dorian continued down the road, twitching his finger in the direction of the machine. A blaring alarm rang out and various white, yellow, and red lights began flashing. The children yelped in fright and scampered away. Dorian contained a smile. 

One of the large machines was moving toward him rapidly. A similar alarm blared at him and the woman inside made a gesture with her middle finger as she gradually slowed down. Dorian cocked his head to the side, and the machine’s engine made an awful cranking sound, black smoke billowing up from the front end. Another jerk of his head, and the entire contraption slid to the side of the road, out of his way. 

This might be fun.

* * *

_“VIRGIL!” _a voice screeched in the distance, ringing like an ornery bird call through the trees. Roman froze, a chill shooting down his neck. He cast a glance Virgil’s direction. He looked paler than normal, and clutched his talisman so tightly, he would have killed it, had it been alive.

Roman knew where Logan and Patton were simply because they’d planned it, but he couldn’t resist using his newfound ability to be absolutely sure. Patton was thirty feet east of him and Virgil. Logan was even farther east. One hundred and twenty-seven feet, to be exact. 

_“Where are you, cat?!” _Ursula screamed in frustration. Roman refrained from using his ability on the witch, just in case he ended up giving their location away. From where they crouched in the bushes, she sounded only a couple hundred feet up the slope of the mountain.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Virgil muttered.

“What?” 

“She should know exactly where I am. I’m her familiar,” he said. “I don’t know why she can’t find me.” 

“Well, whatever the reason, let’s count ourselves lucky,” Roman said. Though, for their plan to work, they _needed_ Ursula to find them. Reaching into the bush, Roman grabbed one of the branches and snapped it. This needed to seem unintentional. 

Sure enough, the witch began stomping down the hill toward them. Her hair was silvery as Roman remembered, though she wore pants, tennis shoes, and a streamlined running jacket. She almost looked like a normal human. 

Her eyes scanned the trees. She still seemed unable to pinpoint their exact location. 

“I can sense you, kitty,” she muttered. 

Before Virgil could make his mind up to bolt in the other direction, Roman grabbed his arm and stood up out of the bush, pulling Virgil up with him. 

“We’re right here, Ursula.” 

Her eyes snapped to him, then to Virgil. Roman could feel him shaking beneath his jacket. The witch smiled and lifted her hands in a gesture of goodwill. 

“I’m not here for you, princey. Virgil’s been misbehaving recently, and I think it’s time he got a reminder who’s in charge around here.” 

“You’re not going anywhere near him,” Roman said, unsheathing his sword. 

Ursula cocked an eyebrow. “You sure you don’t want to save that for the demon? Be a shame to tire yourself out before the curse even starts.” 

“Leave us alone. You have no business here.”

The witch’s expression darkened. “Where are the rest of your friends, kitty? Didn’t want to join the party?”

On cue, Patton wandered out of his hiding place, calling, “Roman? Virgil? Come on guys, where are you? Logan’s worried sick!”

Roman let out a curse, and a smile stretched across Ursula’s face. 

“Patton! Get out of here!” he shouted. Patton’s head snapped in their direction. 

“No,” Ursula crooned. “Why don’t you come over here, dear?” She curled a finger towards herself and muttered, **“****Nohmai****.”**

Patton jerked forward, as if drawn by a string sprouting from the middle of his chest. Roman’s breath caught. Just like his curse. Patton’s feet skidded across the forest floor as he was drawn toward the witch, his face one of fear and confusion. 

Virgil nudged him. Roman started, remembering the plan. 

**“****Baesta****!” **he cried, concentrating as well he could on the invisible connection between the two of them. Power surged out of him with the strangest sensation Roman had ever felt. It was like blood flowing back into a limb that had fallen asleep. 

A deep groove tore into the ground and branches were shorn from trees as some invisible force barreled out of him. The furrow separated Patton and Ursula, and he stumbled to a stop a few paces from her. The witch looked at Roman, astounded. 

“You’ve discovered your powers.”

“Patton, _run!” _Roman barked. 

Responding faster than he probably should have, Patton turned on his heel and sprinted in the direction he’d come. 

Almost as if he’d expected it. 

_She’s going to try to use him as leverage, _Logan had explained. _She’ll see him as the weakest member and since she can’t kill or harm Roman and risk him dying, she’ll try to threaten Patton’s life in exchange for Virgil._ _As long as you and Virgil can keep her from using magic to capture Patton, the plan will work smoothly. _

The chase began without preamble. Ursula dashed after Patton with far more speed than a woman of her age should have been able. Roman and Virgil sprinted after them. 

Roman was pleased to find that Patton wasn’t just a good runner; he was shockingly fast. His feet beat the ground in a quick pace, his strides long and loping, yet he swerved around trees and over logs with ease. He was easily faster than Ursula and Roman, and could probably keep up with Virgil in cat form. 

They were fast approaching Logan’s hiding place. Thankfully, due to his total lack of magical ability, Virgil had said it would be near impossible for her to sense Logan’s presence. 

_Don’t let any of it touch you or Virgil,_ Logan had warned. _We want to disable _her _powers, not all of yours. _

Ten more feet. 

Ursula growled in frustration, snarling, **“****Eirholme****,” **and rising into the air. 

Five feet. 

She picked up speed, her outstretched hand just centimeters from the collar of Patton’s cardigan. 

Roman and Virgil swerved out from behind her just in time to avoid the plume of iron powder Logan flung directly into Ursula’s face as she passed.

* * *

Dorian stood outside the small, two-story house, nose crinkled in disgust. He’d abandoned his quest to find the center of the village when he’d caught the unmistakable stench of magic.

The house was ripe with it. It was bound to happen, given that the last heir to the Witch’s Inheritance, a sybil, and the world’s most powerful witch’s familiar were all living in the same vicinity. He figured they were simply lucky they hadn’t attracted more attention. 

Most likely, it was his own scent that had kept any stray magical creatures wandering the outside world at bay. He smelled of death, and he knew it. 

Not at all curious, but simply wanting to get out of the public eye for a while—at least until people stopped getting all agitated about thier machines acting up—Dorian stepped up the front porch steps. The door was locked. A simple touch, and the door opened for him. 

The odor was even worse inside. Dorian couldn’t fathom how the familiar had stood it all these years. Then again, Dorian used to live in the Witchlands. That scent had once been the smell of home. 

He hadn’t sensed such an aroma in hundreds of years. 

The house itself was quaint, with a relatively open kitchen and living space. Dorian found a carpeted staircase tucked against a wall and wandered up it. The smell grew stronger. 

Four rooms, a bathroom, and a linen closet. He could tell which was the little prince’s without having to open the door, despite it hanging open, revealing a mess of clutter and clothes. He’d grown used to the boy’s particular odor by now. The familiar’s simply smelled like the Witchlands. The third had no particular scent whatsoever. Peeking inside, Dorian found the room studiously neat and well kept. Boring. 

What he was most interested in, actually, was the sybil’s room. The child had come out of nowhere, with significantly more power than any other sybil Dorian had come across while in the Queen’s court. 

He ran a finger across the door handle and sniffed it. Nothing too suspicious. Easing the door open, he stepped inside. The room was… warm. Homey, if Dorian had to put a word to it. Not much in the way of possessions, unlike the little prince. 

Dorian sniffed. 

Something was off. The room smelled of the prediction magic typical of everyday sybils, but there was something else. An undertone he hadn’t sensed since his days in the Queen’s dungeons. 

Something… _prophetic. _Divine, even. 

A loud thud from downstairs pulled Dorian from his thoughts. Eyes narrowing, he exited the room and slipped silently down the stairs. 

The thudding continued. Dorian ambled curiously down the hallway it originated from. Being as powerful as he was, he didn’t have much to worry about in the way of danger. 

Turning the corner, he was surprised to find a door, sealed shut with a glowing, violet sigil. The thudding turned to scrabbling at the edges of the door, trying for purchase on any one of the hinges or edges. 

_The mark of __Avalian__, _Dorian mused to himself, running a finger across the sigil. It sparked and smoked at his touch.

“What are you hiding?” he muttered, pressing his palm into the wood of the door. Dorian slowly wiped his hand across the mark, wincing ever so slightly as it scorched the skin of his hand in protest. Despite the spell’s noble efforts, however, it eventually gave up and dissipated. 

The door swung open. 

“…swear I’ll stuff a pixie up that cat’s nose and tie his tail to a—”

Dorian’s mouth ticked up into a smile. “Hello, there.”

* * *

Ursula screamed and fell to the ground, rolling several times. Whatever magic that kept her flying stopped. Patton jogged to a stop a few feet away. Logan leaped out of the bush, breathless with excitement. 

“It worked!” 

Roman rushed forward, brandishing his blade. Ursula wiped her face furiously with her hands. 

“What did you _do?!” _she wailed, tears from her bloodshot eyes streaking down her face. She coughed. “_Iron?!” _

“That’s right,” Roman said, pointing his sword at her chest. “Don’t move.” 

“Or what?” she said, spitting iron-tainted saliva out onto the ground. “You’ll kill me? We both know you can’t—_aaah__!” _Ursula cried as he drew his blade across her thigh. 

“You don’t know what I will or won’t do, witch,” he growled. “I’ve promised a very powerful demon that I’d kill you in exchange for my freedom. Seems like a tempting offer.” 

“You brat. No wonder Virgil’s been acting up.”

“He’s not your property,” Logan said, brushing the remaining iron dust off his hands. Patton came to stand next to him. Ursula eyed them both. 

“You stupid mortals would never understand. The kind of bond between a witch and their familiar is for life. There’s no going back.” 

“He’s done pretty well without you, so far,” Roman countered. “Besides, you’re powerless now. You’re not exactly threatening.” 

“Well,” she said with a smile. “I think the little prince needs to be taught a lesson, don’t you, kitty?”

“Roman, do it,” Virgil said hastily. 

“What?”

“Kill her! _Now_! Before—”

**“****Dokuah****Kulong****,” **Ursula rasped, gesturing toward Logan and Patton.

Roman’s heart dropped to his feet. One second, his friends were standing there, looks of surprise and confusion on their faces, and the next, they were just gone. As if they’d never been there. The world seemed to tilt around Roman, and he couldn’t think straight. _She hadn’t… they couldn’t be… could they?_

A wounded cry tore from Virgil’s throat.

Ursula was on her feet in seconds, disarming Roman, shoving him to the ground, and throwing his sword into the trees. 

**“****Pounu****!” **she cried. To their right, several gallons worth of water appeared out of nowhere, sloshing over the ground and soaking Roman’s clothes. She growled in frustration and started for the water, desperately scrubbing mud over her skin, trying to rid herself of the iron powder. She’d obviously meant for it to appear right over her, but the iron was apparently doing its job. 

**“****Makoaste****duu****fahrnistahll****,” **Virgil rumbled, his arms raised chest-level, the tendons on the back of his hands pulling taut as his fingers contorted. Tears streaked his cheeks, and his eyes held a fury that made even Roman’s stomach clench. 

The world around them seemed to glitch, nothing staying in one place. The ground undulated and grew soft, Roman having to grab hold of the nearest tree to keep from sinking into it. The dirt around Ursula’s feet sunk in on itself, like someone had pulled an enormous drain deep below the ground. An absolutely terrifying noise emanated from the sucking earth. A low, bone-rattling note, like the earth itself were groaning. 

Roman, it seemed, was already weak from the one word he’d uttered, and found it difficult to keep a grip on the tree. He was buried up to his waist, the ground pulling at his ankles like quicksand. Hopefully, Virgil wasn’t so enthralled in his fight he ended up pulling Roman into it as well. 

Ursula was covered nearly head-to-toe in mud. Preoccupied with trying not to be buried alive, she paid Roman little attention. 

**“****Eirholme****!” **Ursula rose into the air, the angry black dirt following her, tugging at her feet. She raised a muddy hand and screamed, **_“_****_Kazhta_****_!”_**

Virgil gasped, collapsing to the ground. The dirt immediately fell slack, jittering and twitching as Virgil thrashed and screamed on the ground, grabbing at his back. 

_“Virgil!” _Roman cried, trying desperately to free the lower half of his body from the dirt. It was no use. His sword was somewhere lost in the trees. He tried to locate it, but he was too frazzled. He couldn’t concentrate. 

Virgil tore his jacket off, revealing countless shallow gashes torn up and down his arms. His back was criss-crossed by them as well, soaking his black shirt crimson. More appeared every second. If it went on much longer, he’d be cut to ribbons. 

Ursula approached Virgil, her feet alighting on the ground like she was an apparition. 

Roman fought back tears of fear and frustration as he tried to pull himself out of the earth with the hold he had on a low branch. The limb snapped. 

“Remember this, kitty,” Ursula crooned, placing a hand on his trembling shoulder. She looked over at Roman, favoring the leg he’d injured.

“You both belong to me.” 

And with that, she muttered a quick, **“****Dokuah**** Cairo,” **and disappeared without a trace.


	21. must we be so brave?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the aftermath of battle is never fun. Especially for the losers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: blood, near drowning

“_Hold on, Virgil!”_ Roman shouted, frantically digging at the dirt around his waist. Ursula was gone, but her spell held fast. Perhaps it was because he was her familiar. Perhaps she was just that powerful. Regardless, the gashes were climbing to Virgil’s shoulders and neck, licking the underside of his jaw like flames. Blood ran from every wound, trailing down his arms and dripping from his shirt. He snatched his jacket and turned out the pockets, going pale. 

“Come on, powers. Work with me here,” Roman growled. How did Virgil usually do it? A rhyming couplet or two ought to do the trick, right? The only witchtongue he remembered from Virgil’s quick lesson were defensive… except for one. 

_Baesta. _Virgil had said it translated roughly to “break” or “sever.” It probably wouldn’t work, but Roman was running out of options at this point. 

He pressed his hands into the soil. 

“Roman, _don’t,” _Virgil spat, grimacing. “Please, don’t. You’ll just blow yourself up. I just—_gah! _**_Isumani_****_!” _**he cried, clamping a hand over his blood-soaked forearm. Nothing happened. Virgil let out a noise of painful frustration through gritted teeth, his hands making short aborted movements as he desperately tried to keep from tearing at the invisible nails raking across his skin. “Where’s my talisman?! I need it. Roman, where is it?!”

“What?”

_“Locate it!” _Virgil shouted. Roman stopped struggling and tried to concentrate. Too much was happening. Virgil was in trouble. For all he knew, two of his friends were dead. He was stuck. 

Virgil searched the forest floor, grimacing through the pain. “_Mend the bones and—and clear the… clear the mind,” _he breathed, swaying a little. Tears dribbled off his nose. Virgil was losing too much blood. He was going to die. 

“Okay. Okay, come on. Think, Roman. You can do this,” Roman muttered, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. He reached for the space in his mind where he’d felt the tugging sensation before. _Talisman. I need the talisman. Where is it?_

Something pulled just behind his sternum. The talisman was twenty paces to his right.

“There!” Roman shouted, pointing. “A little towards me, by that rock.”

Virgil crawled toward the area Roman was pointing. He was almost there. His arms trembled, slick with blood, and he was nearly dragging himself at this point. A line of red traced across his face. Virgil’s hand stretched toward the button. 

His arm gave out beneath him and he collapsed, eyes rolling up into his head. 

Virgil’s red-stained fingers were mere inches from the talisman. 

“No, no, no! _Virgil! _Wake up! No, please. I can’t lose you, too,” Roman sobbed. Desperate, he screamed, “_Dorian!” _into the surrounding trees. 

Nothing. 

_“Dorian, please!” _he tried again, but was met with the rustle of the forest and the carefree twitter of birds. 

“Screw it,” he muttered. Turning in a safe direction, Roman wormed his hands into the dirt at his waist and bellowed, **_“Baesta!”_**

A monstrous _crack_ echoed through the woods like the shot of a rifle as the earth exploded. A crevasse six feet wide and twice as long split the dirt. An unfortunate tree caught by Roman’s spell cleaved perfectly down the middle. The new, thinner halves buckled under their own weight and crashed to the ground in a cacophony of snapping branches. Dirt sprayed everywhere. A particular handful ended up in Roman’s mouth, which he spat out, coughing. Thankfully, the fissure was deep enough that he was able to pull free of his loamy prison. 

Roman scrambled onto level ground, rushing to Virgil’s side. He snatched the talisman from where it lay buried in excess dirt, not having to even look to see where it was. He just knew. 

Roman pressed the button into Virgil’s palm. “Here, Virgil. Here it is. You can heal yourself, now.” 

Virgil said nothing. His eyes didn’t open. 

Roman put a hand under his nose. A sob of relief escaped him when he felt the small, weak puff of breath. “You have to help me, Virge. I don’t—I don’t know how to help you. I can’t…” Roman had never seen this much blood in his life. His friend had moments to live, and Roman was the only one who could help. 

_Come on, _Roman thought, wracking his brain for any scrap of helpful information. He had to stop the spell somehow. Virgil had taught him the word for protection. _Fjendahl__. _Surely, nothing bad could happen if he went overboard with something like that, right? What was a little more protection?

**“****Fjendahl****,” **Roman said as forcefully as he could muster. That similar feeling of power leaving him surged through his arms, and a sudden pressure bore down on his mind. It was Ursula’s spell. He hadn’t stopped it, but merely shielded Virgil from it. 

_That’s good enough, _Roman figured, though the building pressure was making it hard to concentrate fully. At least it wasn’t cutting into _him. _Now, to do something about Virgil’s injuries. 

Roman didn’t know any healing words in witchtongue, and he doubted making up some random rhyming line without any sort of experience would end well. He’d probably just make things worse. Still, Virgil was going to bleed out if he didn’t do something soon. 

The idea came to him so suddenly, he almost forgot to keep up the protection spell. He could find almost anything. Why not the right word? Sure, it wasn’t exactly _physical,_ but the concept held up… hopefully. 

_I need to find the word for healing,_ Roman thought, a little unsure of how exactly he was supposed to phrase his question. _In witchtongue, please, _he amended. It was as if he were praying to some deity, not his own powers. But as long as he got a result, Roman would pray to whoever he needed to. 

A memory popped into his head. Virgil touching his wounds and shouting a word. _Isumani__. _

Roman felt again beneath Virgil’s nose. No breath. 

Without thinking about whether he’d be able to perform two spells at once, Roman placed a hand on Virgil’s back. He ignored the mounting pressure in his skull from the remnant spell, and intoned, _“_**_Isumani_****_,” _**with as much power as he could manage. 

Power blasted out of him so forcefully, Roman physically rocked back from the recoil. Blood flowed out of the dirt it had soaked into and back into his friend’s body. Wounds stitched themselves back together in a matter of seconds leaving behind no evidence they’d even been there. 

Instead of marveling at his own abilities, Roman simply thought, _Good. I’d hate for anything to happen to Virgil’s face. _

Virgil gasped, air filling his lungs once more. His eyes flew open and he immediately started retching and coughing into the dirt. 

“What did you _do?”_ Virgil finally managed, panting slightly. 

“I healed you,” Roman said, only basking a little bit in his pride. “Are you okay?”

Virgil relaxed onto his back, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths. “I was dead, Roman.”

“I know the feeling. Not too pleasant, is it?”

“That’s not what I mean,” Virgil said, “You brought me back, you… wait, what happened to the spell?”

Roman smiled, almost giddy with relief. “I protected you from it—well, _am _protecting you from it. It’s pressing on my brain a bit, but it’s not too bad,” he admitted, knocking a knuckle against his temple. 

Virgil just stared at him, then burst out laughing. “You… you really just—” He ran his hands down his face and groaned. “What am I going to do with you, witchboy?”

_“__Witchboy__?” _Roman laughed incredulously. “You’re talking some big game, there, Fur-ball.”

**“Baesta,”**Virgil sighed, waving a hand in an arc through the air. The pressure released instantly. 

“Why didn’t Ithink of that?” Roman chuckled lamely. 

Virgil snorted. “I’m glad you didn’t. You'd have leveled the forest otherwise.” He sat up, checking his arms, chest, and face for any residual wounds. “You may be powerful, but you need a lesson in restraint.” 

Roman helped Virgil to his feet. Looking around, his eyes were drawn to the two empty pairs of footprints where Logan and Patton had once stood. His throat caught. 

“Virgil… what happened to them?”

“Displacement,” he replied, his expression darkening. “It’s similar to what you humans consider teleportation.” 

Roman nearly went weak with relief. “So, they aren’t dead?”

Virgil didn’t return the sentiment, working his talisman through his fingers absently. “Probably.”

Roman wilted. “What do you mean _probably__?”_

“Well, we don’t know how much iron she had left on her, or how affected her powers were when she transported them. She sent them to Kulong, which doesn’t surprise me, but if she missed by even a mile or two…”

“Kulong?” 

“It’s an island somewhere in your largest ocean. She’s sent a lot of people there she wanted out of the way. Her prisoners are skilled witches and creatures, but displacement itself is one of the hardest types of magic to learn and execute properly. As far as I know, she’s the only one able to do it.” 

Roman’s stomach dropped. “An island?”

“Yeah. Is there something wrong with that?”

“Patton had a dream last night,” he breathed, panic beginning to seize in his chest. “He and Logan were drowning in the ocean. Virgil, what if they—what if they’re _dying? _We have to do something, we—I can’t—” 

Virgil grabbed his shoulders. “Roman, look at me. There’s nothing we can do right now. It’ll be up to them to figure something out.” Even as he said the words, his hands shook. 

“How can you say that? Patton _saw_ what was going to happen, and I didn’t _do anything—_” 

“But you didn’t do nothing. You fought Ursula. You used magic. You saved _me. _You can keep doing things to help them. Tell me, where’s Dorian right now?”

Roman took a shaky breath, trying to focus. Virgil was right. What was he going to do? They were halfway across the world. Sitting and crying about it wouldn’t fix a thing. “Okay, he’s, um…”

The answer came: two miles west. Roman got his bearings, turned, and pointed.

His heart skipped a beat. 

He was pointing directly into Wakeby.

* * *

It was official. 

Logan hated magic. 

One minute, he’s in the middle of the most important fight of his friend’s life, and the next he’s free falling in the middle of a monsoon. The ocean was approaching fast. He had mere seconds to think. Roughly fifty feet above the water. Legs together. Feet down. Lock your knees. Arms at your sides. Clench your teeth. Big breath. Don’t breathe, don’t breathe, don’t breathe_don’tbreathedon’t—_

The water hit Logan like a brick wall, despite his hydrodynamic entry. The worst was the underside of his chin. It slapped the surface of the water hard, cracking a tooth and sending waves of pain through his jaw. The water was frigid. It was all Logan could do to keep the air inside his body. 

His sense of direction went out the window. Tumbling beneath the dark waves, he had no chance of knowing which way to swim. Logan was at the mercy of nature. He could figure out the logistics of how he ended up in the middle of the ocean when he’d just been in Oklahoma two seconds ago later. Right now, he had to focus on surviving. 

Logan’s head broke the surface, and he almost forgot to breathe. The cold made it nearly impossible, even with his head above water. He was drawn up in another monstrous wave as it grew in size. For a moment, through the torrents of rain, Logan was able to see over the tops of the surrounding waves. 

An island sat in the middle distance, its shore pounded by stormy breakers. 

The faint sound of Patton’s voice carried on the wind, but Logan couldn’t tell in which direction. 

_“Patton!” _he screamed back, his voice cracking. Before he could even begin to search for his friend, the wave crested, and sent Logan tumbling back to the base of the wave. 

This time, he was less coordinated. The water slammed into his back, forcing all the air from his lungs as thousands of tons of water crashed into him, sending him into the deafening silence beneath the surface. 

Salt water filled Logan’s nose and mouth, despite his best efforts. _Drowning surely couldn’t be the worst way to go, right? _Logan reasoned, watching the cloudy undersides of the waves above him illuminated by the flash of lightning. _Logically, there are plenty of methods of dying more painful than this. Burning. Being crushed to death. Disintegration via acid. _

But what about Patton? What if _he_ died? Logan couldn’t bear the thought. 

Something tugged on Logan’s chest, pulling him through the water like a fishing line. He would have felt for whatever it was, but the cold was rendering his muscles useless and heavy. 

Logan couldn’t hear the thunder, but he could feel it through the water itself. His throat suddenly seized, clamping shut. His body was preventing him from breathing more water. Next would be unconsciousness and the cease of respiratory functions. Then hypoxic convulsions, followed by clinical death. 

Instead, something forced his throat open and the water from his lungs. Before Logan could cough and choke down more liquid, he experienced the absolute strangest sensation of cold air filling his lungs without him opening his mouth at all. He exhaled, sending a cloud of bubbles toward the surface of the water, and it happened again. 

Something, or some_one_, was breathing _for_ him. 

Through the murky water, Logan saw the approach of the rocky shore of the island. The reef was comprised of nothing but sharp black rock and algae. Logan would be lucky if he wasn’t ripped to shreds by it before whatever was keeping him alive pulled him to land. 

As if on cue, the invisible line tugged him upwards, toward the surface. The water was about ten feet deep now, and getting shallower by the minute. While this seemed like a good thing at first, Logan found it simply made the waves choppier, and his chance of being slammed into the rocky ocean floor even higher. 

His head broke the surface and he spluttered, not enjoying at all the battle between him trying to breathe for himself, and the magic filling his lungs. He was nearer the island, now. Perhaps thirty feet out. 

A woman stood on the shore, arms outstretched. 

Wave after wave slammed into Logan, sending him tumbling through the water. He scrambled frantically for the surface again, but another wave send him spinning. 

Air filled his lungs. 

_Stop struggling,_ a voice in his head quipped. _You’re making this harder for both of us. _

Logan didn’t want to listen to the voice. He hated everything about this. Not the part where he survived, of course, but he was tired of being strung along by the whims of these magical people. He hated that he had no idea what was going on, or how to do anything about it. 

Eventually, however, Logan surrendered to the magic guiding him through the water and let his body go limp. He was freezing and exhausted and surely should have died twice over by now. Whatever. He didn’t care anymore. 

Somehow, it was colder outside of the water. The beach wasn’t at all pleasant. The sand was rocky and coarse and scraped his hands and face as he was dragged onto shore out of reach of the waves. The wind howled and buffeted him relentlessly, pulling the heat from his body even faster. Logan’s body shook violently, and he curled in on himself, breathing into his hands. Even his breath was cold. Rain pelted him like bullets.

The woman stood next to him, one of her arms still outstretched. 

“Pa—Patton,” he stammered through blue lips. “Where is he?”

“Your friend?” she said, looking supremely unconcerned with the entire affair. “He was a little farther out.”

Logan lay there shivering for what must have only been a minute or two, but felt like an eternity. The woman took a few steps back and Patton’s unconscious, pale form slid across the beach and stopped in front of him. Logan tried to say his name, but his lips were completely numb at this point. He reached a trembling hand and touched his face. Logan couldn’t feel anything through his fingers. 

“Come on,” the woman said, turning and striding up the beach toward the sheer cliff side that bordered it. A wide cave opened at the base of the cliff flickering with the amber light of a fire. 

Logan watched as she left them there on the beach with mounting anger. She was leaving them? Just like that? Patton was unconscious, and Logan could barely move. She’d saved them from the ocean, but was willing to let them die of hypothermia out here on the beach? Surely, with her powers she could heal them completely, or even just transport them out of the elements. 

Logan looked at Patton’s water-logged face once more and it was like his body kicked into overdrive. A furnace of pent up rage and anger sputtered to life inside him. Gritting his teeth, Logan propped himself up on an elbow. Then another. He was on all fours now, battling to stay upright as the wind buffeted into him from all sides. The rain was practically ice now, and Logan’s skin felt raw and painful where it struck. 

He was on his knees. Now, his feet. Logan couldn’t feel his hands, but grasped Patton’s arm anyway. He squatted down, legs trembling from the cold and overexertion, and hefted Patton onto his back. 

Letting out a somewhat involuntary yell of pain, frustration, and determination, Logan took a step up the beach. Pain radiated from every joint, but he didn’t stop. 

He didn’t need magic. He didn’t need charms, or sigils, or rosemary. He could do it without cheating nature or physics. 

As long as Patton needed him, Logan could do anything. 

Logan trudged up the beach. He slipped once, nearly toppling himself and Patton back to the ground, but caught himself on a knee and pressed onward. 

The woman watched passively from the mouth of the cave, offering no assistance or encouragement. 

“I’m going to get us out of this,” Logan hissed through his teeth. Fifteen feet away, now. “I promise, Patton. I’ll get you out of this.” 

Ten feet. 

Five. 

Logan crossed the threshold of the cave, wheezing and trembling, but he didn’t collapse. The fire was a little ways within the cavern, out of reach of the tearing winds. In fact, the wind completely stopped once he’d entered the cave. Glancing to his right, he noticed a sigil carved into the stone and his anger spiked again. How nice she’d been able to watch him suffer from the comfort of her cave. 

“I’m impressed,” the woman noted, arms folded across her chest. She was tall, even taller than Patton, he guessed, and had thick hair red as a flame streaked with silver and white. She looked to be in her early sixties, and wore a plain purplish dress cinched around the waist. 

Logan said nothing, but simply glared at her and shuffled toward the fire. As carefully as he could manage with questionable control over his limbs, he lowered Patton to the ground near the fire. He wasn’t shivering, which was a problem. His body wasn’t trying—or able—to warm itself. 

“You,” he spat at the witch. “Can you dry his clothes?” 

She cocked an eyebrow. “Can’t you?” 

Logan took a breath, desperately trying to keep from strangling the woman. “No. I cannot.” 

“Why’d the dragon witch send you here if you can’t even—”

“My friend is dying,” Logan snapped, pointing a trembling finger at Patton. “If you’re as proud as you look, I’m sure drying his clothes would be quite simple for you.” 

The woman chewed on the inside of her cheek for a moment before muttering, “_Calm the body, dry the skin, warm the soul through fire within.” _

Logan’s face flushed as heat suddenly radiated from inside him. He stopped shivering, and his fingers tingled as blood rushed back into them. Feeling his clothes, he found them dry. 

Patton began breathing easier, his own clothes and body dry and warm. 

Overcome with relief and unimaginable exhaustion, Logan finally let himself collapse to the ground. The dancing flames of the fire grew muddled and blurry as his mind slowly drifted off. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confirmed: Logan is the strongest (physically) out of the four (closely followed by Roman).


	22. world's turned upside down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian meets a chaotic little goblin, and Patton meets someone like him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: panic attacks, flashbacks of assault and bondage, self-harm
> 
> Also, yes the title is a Hamilton reference.

Logan’s eyes opened only to be assaulted by the bright morning light streaming through the mouth of the cave. 

The cave? How on earth did he end up in a…

Oh. Right. 

The memories of last night came back in a rush, and Logan bolted upright. His entire body protested the movement, but he ignored it. Logan’s stomach bottomed out when he found himself alone. The firepit was nothing but smoking embers and flaky white ash. Patton and the witch that had saved them were nowhere to be seen. 

“Patton?” he called, wishing his voice didn’t sound as panicked as it did. 

A flicker of movement from the beach caught his eye. The flame-haired witch strode across the rocky sand slowly, Patton at her heels pestering her with endless questions. Another figure crouched a few paces from them, inspecting the ground. Logan didn’t recognize the third person. 

Eager to get out of the chill of the cave and into the warm morning sun, Logan stood, stretching as much as his stiff muscles would allow, and stepped out onto the beach. 

Patton looked over, and his eyes lit up. His face broke out into an unabashed grin and he waved Logan over.

Logan felt a smile of his own press up behind his throat, but he resisted. Now was not the time for fun. They had to find a way off this island. 

“Good morning, Patton.”

“Hey, Lo. This is Eudora!”

Logan shot the witch a scathing look. “Yes. We’ve met.”

Eudora showed no sign of even hearing him. 

Logan glanced at their third guest. He looked to be in his late fifties, his dark black hair now more salt than pepper. He crouched on his haunches, sifting his fingers through the sandy gravel. Every few seconds, he’d single out a pebble or shell, sniffing it or pressing it to the pad of his tongue briefly before setting it back down. 

“Who’s that?”

“You may call him Killian,” Eudora replied. “Master arcanist and unfortunate victim of the dragon witch’s vain attempts to penetrate the mind.” She worked the inside of her cheek between her teeth. “Give him a wide berth. He… doesn’t enjoy being crowded.” 

Patton wandered toward the water, limping slightly. Concern flashed through Logan. Had he been injured in last night’s fiasco? Why hadn’t he said anything? 

“Your friend is fine,” Eudora said, noting his expression. “A little bruised, but otherwise unharmed.”

“No thanks to you.”

“You would not have perished.” 

Logan’s shoulders bunched, but he kept his eyes on the still-pink horizon line. “It was a near thing.”

“It was not.”

“Expound your point.”

The witch finally looked at him. Logan didn’t return her gaze. “Do all nokes speak like you?”

“I don’t know the term,” he said, though it didn’t sound too complimentary.

“Non-magic humans.”

“No, I suppose they don’t.”

Patton rolled his pant legs up and waded in the shallows, the water only up to his ankles. Logan watched with mild apprehension as Killian approached his friend curiously. 

Logan squinted as the morning sun rose to his eye level. “Are you so sure I do not possess magical abilities?”

Eudora snorted. “Quite.”

Patton noticed Killian, but said nothing. The man sifted through the wet sand with his fingers, holding a handful up for Patton to see. Patton smiled and nodded encouragingly. 

“You have not explained yourself,” Logan said. “How were you so sure we would live?”

Eudora blinked slowly, watching Patton and Killian carefully. “Nothing dies here. You jump off a cliff, take ill, walk into the ocean, and you wake up on the beach minutes later. Snare a mouse, stone a bird, swat a bug, and they heal in a matter of seconds.” A dry smile flitted across her features. “I’m sure you can imagine why we all resorted to vegetarianism after discovering this.”

Logan supposed it should have shocked him, astounded him that the dragon witch had somehow placed a spell against death in this prison of a sort. It didn’t. Eudora could tell him they all turned into guinea pigs under the full moon and he’d accept it. 

“There are more here than you and Killian?”

“Three others. They primarily stay inland. I am the only one… _patient _enough to tend to Killian.”

“How long have you all been here, then?”

“Centuries.” She looked down at him. “We all arrived within a decade or so of each other. You two are the only recent arrivals since then. Something must have changed outside.” 

“You could say that,” Logan muttered, leaving Eudora standing there and coming up next to Patton. 

“How are you fairing, Patton?”

“Stressing and repressing,” he responded with a chuckle. Upon seeing Logan’s incredulous expression, he amended, “Poor joke. Sorry.”

“You are limping.”

“I’m just a little sore. How are you doing? Eudora told me what you had to do last night,” Patton said, meeting his eyes. “Thank you.” 

“I wasn’t going to just leave you out there,” Logan replied. Blinking in surprise, he noted, “Patton, your glasses are missing.”

Patton smiled. “Yes, and so are yours, silly. We lost them in the ocean last night.”

Logan touched his face, indeed finding the glasses absent. How hadn’t he noticed? And how was it he could see perfectly well without them?

Patton swirled his foot through the sea water, grinning at Logan’s confused expression. “I already asked Eudora, and she said her healing spell might have gone a bit overboard.”

“Healing spell? What...” Logan trailed off. She must have performed it after he’d passed out. However, if that was the case, how bad had Patton’s leg had to have been to still be sore after a spell like that? Logan hadn’t noticed any sort of injury last night, but then again, he’d been nearly delirious with exhaustion by the time he’d arrived at the cave. 

Killian slapped a hand at the miniscule waves lapping his feet. “Tiny!” he crowed triumphantly, as if he’d finally located the word he’d been looking for. “Tiny, tiny, tiny…” he babbled, chasing the small undulations up the sand and back. 

“You seem to be taking our new situation well,” Logan said. 

Patton bit his lip. “No, I just haven’t dealt with it yet. I’m not really thinking about it.”

Logan scrutinized his friend, confused by the transparent honesty. Previously, Patton would have shrugged it off on plain optimism, not shock or repression, changing the subject as easily as he wore that smile. 

_Well, at least he’s acknowledging it now, _he figured. _I wonder what caused his habits to change._

Killian stopped racing up and down the beach, instead staring at the handful of sand clenched in his fist. “Tiny,” he breathed. “Tiny, b… buh…” he struggled for some word to follow the last, tugging at his lips. Killian looked at Eudora, holding up the sand, then gesturing at Logan. “Buh…! Tiny! _Tiny!”_

Eudora nodded, saying something to him that was too soft for Logan to pick out. 

A shrill whistle cut through the air, and they all froze, looking up at the top of the cliffs bordering the beach. 

A figure stood at the top, staring intently at Logan and Patton. 

“Well,” Eudora sighed, “it looks like introductions are in order.”

* * *

The goblin’s pea-green complexion drained to the sickly shade of a frog’s underbelly upon seeing the figure standing opposite the door he’d so adamantly been trying to open. 

“Don’t run,” Dorian advised. “I’d rather not eat you just yet.”

The hobgoblin turned and scampered away into the darkness, regardless. 

Dorian rolled his eyes. “They never listen.” 

He strode down the stairs, not bothering to turn the light on. Dorian watched in vague intrigue as the warm little lump that was the goblin scrabbled through shelves and boxes to escape. 

“Why would the little prince have someone like _you _in his basement?”

Upstairs, Dorian heard the front door burst open and footsteps rush inside. 

_“Dorian?!” _the little prince called, sounding far more panicked than he should. Honestly, it wasn’t as if Dorian had come here in his true form, killing mortals left and right. Though that was a fun thought. 

The goblin made a dash for the still-open cellar door, underestimating Dorian’s reflexes. Easy as plucking an apple from a tree, he snatched the tiny creature off the floor by the scruff of its neck. 

Ascending the stairs nonchalantly, Dorian met the little prince and familiar upstairs. The prince was covered in dirt head to toe and breathing heavy. Virgil was covered in dried blood, though he didn’t look to be injured anywhere. 

“Hello, boys. Looking rather ragged, are we?”

“What are you doing in our house?” the little prince demanded. 

“Exploring. You had this in your cellar.”

Virgil looked somewhere between throwing up and bursting into laughter, glancing quickly between Dorian and the creature. “What’re you going to do to him?”

Roman scowled. “He isn’t going to do anything unless we say so.”

“Oh?” Dorian cocked an eyebrow. “You’re sure about that, little prince?”

“I told you to stop calling me that,” he growled. 

“Again, you think you can command me in anything,” Dorian said, amused. His response only seemed to make the boy angrier. “Where’s that sybil friend of yours? I’d like to talk to him.” 

“What do you want with Patton?” Virgil bristled. 

“We need your help,” Roman said simultaneously. The familiar looked at him incredulously. 

“You can’t be serious,” he hissed. 

The goblin thrashed around in his grasp. Dorian snapped his teeth at it—thought it was far less impressive in his human form. Regardless, the tiny thing yelped. 

Virgil paled, gripping the little prince’s arm reflexively. Dorian eyed him curiously. It had been so long ago. He’d killed or eaten so many creatures between then and now, it felt insignificant. While he wasn’t particularly proud of what he’d done in the queen's name, it still surprised him that the familiar was hung up about something that seemed so trivial. Dorian couldn’t wrap his head around it. 

Maybe it was a prey-thing. He hadn’t felt anything close to fearing for his life since… well, since Rosemary threatened to have him killed or worse for drinking the serum. Being an apex predator had its perks, but was definitely lacking in the empathy department. 

“You are to kill Ursula yourself, little prince. The terms of the contract were clear. I do not have to offer you any assistance.” 

“I have no idea how to use my powers,” he said. “How do you expect me to kill a witch like that?”

Dorian glanced at Virgil, who visibly stiffened. “Why not have the familiar teach you? He’s just as much of a magical creature as I am.” 

Virgil swallowed. “I’m not—well, I specialize more in death and spirit magic, and Roman—I have no idea what kind of powers he has, and not to mention the whole Witch’s Inheritance thing, I… no. I can’t.”

“Can’t?” Dorian pressed, tossing the goblin to the floor and surrounding it in a magical barrier with a little flourish. “Hm, I suppose you may be right, but that puts me in the same situation. Witches’ magic comes from spells, witchtongue, and the like. It would prove difficult to teach something so inherent to ourselves.”

The familiar clenched his fist around something in his pocket. The hobgoblin, unaware of his predicament, stood and tried to run, smacking his nose on the invisible wall around him. 

“Ah, come on!” he complained. “If you’re gonna eat me, just get it over with already.”

Dorian’s nose wrinkled. “Why would I eat something like you?” He looked to Roman. “Why was this thing in your residence?”

The little prince opened and closed his mouth, searching for some answer. “I… don’t know. Patton brought him here, but I guess we never really discussed it.”

“Familiar? Any idea?”

Virgil, for once, wasn’t watching Dorian’s every move. Instead, he stared at the creature trapped on the floor, an unreadable expression on his face. 

“He stole my talisman.” 

The goblin let out a nervous chuckle. “Come on, Kitty, it was just a little fun—”

“Don’t call me that,” the familiar snapped, though Dorian suspected he hadn’t intended it to sound so breathless and pathetic. 

“Virgil!” the goblin amended, eyes wide. “You… You won’t really let Bloodwyrm kill me, will you? We’re like family, right?”

Dorian snorted. As if the familiar’s opinion could keep him from doing anything. Truthfully, he was curious. He had newfound freedom to enjoy and wanted to take his time to do it. Why not let the mortals deliberate over inconsequential life? He had time to spare. 

“Do you have bread?” Dorian asked, growing tired of the current topic of conversation. 

Virgil snapped out of whatever thoughts had been running through his head. 

“What?” Roman spluttered. 

“Bread,” Dorian said the word slowly. “You do have such a commodity, don’t you? This world isn’t worth living in if you don’t.”

The little prince barked a laugh of utter bewilderment. “Yeah, we have bread. Do you want some?”

“Very much so.” 

Virgil looked at Roman incredulously, gesturing to the goblin. “Are we not going to address the Remus-problem?”

An absolutely ridiculous grin spread across Roman’s face. “No. Right now, I’m going to feed a demon some toast.” He waved a dismissive hand in the creature’s direction. “I’m sure he’ll be fine there. Come on, Virge, have some bread and butter.”

* * *

The man’s name was Mikhail, and Patton thought he was pretty friendly. Logan was skeptical, but he was skeptical of nearly everyone, so Patton wasn’t too surprised. He was broad-shouldered, with mouse-brown hair that hung past his shoulders, and a ginormous frame. His hands were the size of Patton’s entire face. He wore no shirt, only a pale, wrap-around style skirt and some sandals that looked homemade. Around his bicep curled an intricate red tattoo.

Eudora had opted to stay on the beach with Killian, handing them off to Mikhail for the rest of their island tour. 

The hike inland wasn’t too taxing. The foliage was dense and green, the ground soft and springy beneath their feet. It was humid, but not unbearably so. Everything was soaked from the storm last night, and despite their best efforts, Patton and Logan were slipping in mud puddles and wincing as droplets of water fell on them from the canopy overhead. 

“It’s so beautiful here,” Patton commented, ducking under the cluster of branches that whipped back at them as Mikhail passed. Unfortunately, Logan didn’t have quite the reaction time he did, and spat wet leaves from his mouth, detangling himself from the branches and muttering to himself. 

“Yes,” was all Mikhail said. 

Patton struggled to keep his thoughts from Roman and Virgil. Had they survived the rest of the fight with Ursula? Did they think he and Logan were dead? Patton _had_ shared his dream about drowning with Roman earlier. That surely wouldn’t help, but since when did his dreams everhelp? Also, how were they ever going to get off of this island? If witches as powerful as Eudora were stuck here, what chance did they have? 

Thankfully, Patton had practice acting like things weren’t the way they were. 

At long last, they arrived. Two huts stood a little ways apart from each other, each elevated off the ground a few inches. They were constructed of branches tied together with vines and insulated with dried clay. Clusters of palm fronds lay across the roofs. The shelters were impressively intricate, with woven mats as flooring, and similarly woven curtains that could be rolled up and tied above each window. Several other structures littered the area: lean-to’s full of homemade tools of stone and wood, what looked to be a dry-storehouse, and even a clay-brick forge. 

Two figures sat around a smoldering firepit, chatting. They looked up as the group approached. 

The first was a woman with sharp eyes and smooth umber skin. Her head was shaved bare, and she was visibly muscular, even relaxed and sitting down. She, like Mikhail, wore a plain skirt—a similar fabric also wrapping and supporting her chest. Even though she smiled warmly at the two of them as they entered camp, Patton couldn’t help being a little intimidated.

The second figure was a thin, wiry man with grass-green skin, shrouded in a cloak of moss. Patches of orange, white, and green lichen mottled his body. 

“Whatchya got there, Mikhail?” the woman said, standing. 

“New arrivals. Eudora found them on the beach last night.”

The green man snorted. “New arrivals. Bah! We don’t hear anything for centuries, and _now _she’s sending more prisoners? I don’t trust it.”

“You don’t trust anything, Jorryn,” the woman countered. She held a calloused hand out to Patton. “I’m Daveigh. What’re your names?”

“Patton,” he replied, “and this is Logan.” 

He took her hand to shake it, and Daveigh stiffened, her grip tightening. Apprehension shot through Patton faster than it took lightening to strike. 

“You’re… oh my,” she breathed. “I can’t believe it.”

“What? What’s wrong?” Logan interjected, placing a hand on Patton’s shoulder. 

“Could you maybe let go of my hand?” he asked softly, starting to grow nervous. 

“Oh!” she said, coming to her senses and releasing him. “Sorry,” she chuckled, “I kind of lost myself there, but you’re an _oracle! _No wonder the dragon witch sent you here!”

Jorryn perked up and Mikhail’s eyes narrowed. Patton decidedly did _not_ like all the attention he was suddenly getting. 

“I’m not too familiar with the whole magic-thing, but I’m pretty sure I’m just a sibyl, guys.”

Daveigh, apparently, was too busy celebrating to listen. “This is amazing! An oracle hasn’t been born in… well, millennia! And a _male? _I’ve got to have a prophecy around here somewhere about this,” she said, rushing back into her hut. 

“Forgive her,” Mikhail said softly. “She hasn’t interacted with another of her kind in a long time.”

“Her kind?” Logan pressed. “She’s a sibyl as well?”

Mikhail nodded. 

Some of Patton’s nerves abated at that. Maybe she could teach him how to control his dreams. 

“And what about you?” Jorryn asked, staring at Logan. 

“What about me?” he countered defensively. Patton took his hand in an attempt at a comforting gesture. Logan stiffened, looking down at their hands then up at Patton, confusion flitting through his eyes. Dread shot through Patton. Had he overstepped? He knew Logan wasn’t particularly touchy-feely, but Patton hadn’t thought…

He loosened his grip, about to pull away when Logan snapped out of whatever thoughts had been running through his mind and squeezed Patton’s hand back, holding it tight. 

“I have no magical ability, if that’s what you’re asking,” Logan said, holding his head high. 

Jorryn snorted, turning back to the stick he was poking the smoldering logs with. 

“You are like me, then,” Mikhail said, nodding. He shot Jorryn a pointed look. “We magicless witches are often underestimated.” 

Logan’s brow furrowed. “There’s been a misunderstanding. I’m not a witch at all. I’m from Oklahoma.” 

“Forgive me, I’ve never heard of this _Oklahoma-_village since I was taken from the Witchlands. How far from the capital is it?” Mikhail said. 

“Not a witch?” Jorryn scoffed, scrutinizing Logan. “A familiar, then? Doesn’t trust us enough to be in his true form, eh?”

“He has only been here a day, green man,” Mikhail said. “It is only natural not to trust.” 

“I’m not a familiar!” Logan barked, and the two men looked at him bewildered. “I’m a _normal human._ I’m not from the Witchlands. I’m completely ordinary!”

Jorryn chuckled. “Then why—”

_“I don’t know!” _

Patton flinched.

“Okay,” Mikhail said, hands raised placatingly. “Apologies. We meant no disrespect. It appears Jorryn has been here long enough to forget his manners.”

The green man muttered to himself, ignoring Mikhail’s comment. 

“Here we are,” Daveigh sighed, returning from her hut with armfuls of scrolls, though they weren’t made of paper. The material was thick, like cardstock. Dark, nut-brown and fibrous. Logan’s frustration abated somewhat in the face of his blatant curiosity. 

“What kind of material is that?”

Daveigh faltered, surprised by the question. “Wha—? Oh, it’s tree bark. There are some trees up on the mountainside that’s bark peels off in layers.” She smiled. “Paper’s a little hard to come by.”

She sat Patton down across from her and handed him a scroll. Logan remained standing, arms folded tight against his chest as he stared into the middle distance and let his mind churn. Patton wished he were closer, but said nothing. His hand still throbbed where it had once held Logan’s. 

Mikhail retreated to the forge, grabbing a few unfinished tools and weapons from a tree branch they hung from. Jorryn continued sifting the charred end of his stick through the remains of what had once been a fire. 

“Take a look at what’s written,” Daveigh said, nodding encouragingly. 

“It’s in English?” Patton wondered, unfurling the bark-paper scroll. 

“No, but it shouldn’t be an issue,” she replied with a barely contained smile. 

He looked at the scroll. As instantly as his eyes glimpsed the charcoal-etched glyphs, their exact meanings entered his mind. Patton scanned the first line, just this side of overwhelmed by all the information bombarding his mind. There were at least thirty lines total in the scroll, and he’d only managed to read one. Despite all the “information” he received, it wasn’t something he could easily put into words. Like understanding a complex emotion, but when someone asked you what you were feeling, the most you could reply was, “I don’t know.” Everything was layered, a kaleidoscope of meaning that’s focus sharpened the longer he looked at it. 

Generally speaking, the first line was historically oriented. Family lines, deaths and births, migrations, exoduses, marriages and divorces, kingdoms rising and falling. Everything had directionality to it, like the implied lines of a work of art, leading to one seminal moment. 

The line ended there.

Patton looked up at Daveigh, almost out of breath. “What…?”

“That was fast.”

“I only read the first line.”

A grin split her face. “Amazing, isn’t it? Prophetic text. Oracles are the only ones who can write it, let alone read it.” 

Patton swallowed. “But Vir— I mean, my friend said that sibyls are descended from oracles. They only existed…”

“Hundreds of years ago?” Daveigh chuckled, raising a brow. “We’re all a bit older than you might think. We can thank the dragon witch for that. Don’t get me wrong, it hasn’t been all rainbows and sunshine, but it’s given me time to pump out a few of these,” she said, gesturing to the scrolls. 

“So, you’re an oracle, then?”

“Last of my kind… at least, until you showed up.” 

“I—I don’t know,” Patton said, rubbing his arms. “All I do is have dreams. I’m not—”

“Powerful? Please,” Daveigh sighed. Her hand shot forward and clamped across his forehead before he could react, her thumb and middle finger pressing into his temples. “Open your eyes, Patton. See things as they truly _are.”_

That last word reverberated through Patton’s whole being, and it was as if he’d submerged his mind in liquid fire. He cried out and tried to jerk away, but his body wasn’t responding. He heard a muffled shout that could have been Logan, but he wasn’t sure. Something was tearing at all the mental barriers he’d put up. At everything he’d worked so hard to craft into being. Trying to bring things to light that he hadn’t thought about in years.

“Stop,” Patton gasped, his voice breaking.

Daveigh’s hand retracted instantly, and Patton collapsed to the ground, curling in on himself.

“Patton?”

“_Patton! _What did you _do to him?” _

“I didn’t mean—I didn’t think that… oh, this is bad,” she fretted.

_Hands. Hands everywhere. Cigarette smoke. Rotting fruit. No one stopped. No one noticed._

“I’m so sorry, Patton. I should have asked before—If I’d known I—I wouldn’t have even attempted something like that.”

“_Leave. _You’ve done enough.”

_Choking. Spitting. Hitting. His anguished cries answered by gruff laughter. That horrid, crusted van._

“What’s going on?” It was Mikhail. Maybe. Probably.

“I didn’t mean to! I should have asked. I shouldn’t have just—”

“All of you! Leave! You’re making it worse. Patton? Can you hear me? You must deepen your breathing.”

_Two months. _Patton couldn’t breathe, and yet somehow screamed and cried. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin, or bury himself in the earth and never resurface, but he couldn’t stop feeling _those hands._

“Stop it, stop _it, stop it!” _he wailed, beating his head with his fist. Logan grabbed his wrist to stop him, and his touch burned like fire. Patton tried to jerk away, but his grip was firm. _It was happening again. It was all going to happen again. _

“I will refrain from touching you,” Logan conceded, releasing his wrist, “but if you try to hurt yourself again, I will. Can you hear me? Patton? Do you know where you are?”

_He was in the backseat, restrained with seatbelts they’d cut free and used like ropes. He was trying and failing to get some sleep while they played cards in a trailer park with some friends. The throbbing thumbprints of pain dotting his shoulder where they’d put out their cigarettes lulled him to sleep like an off-key lullaby. _

Patton’s head buzzed, stuffed so full with cotton he couldn’t think straight. Was he going to pass out? Maybe. Hopefully. Anything to stop what was happening. He wasn’t screaming anymore—at least, he was pretty sure he wasn’t, but the hiccupping sobs tumbling out of him still rattled his frame.

Every time he managed to ride a wave of steadiness, he wondered if the memories were gone for good, which only brought them back faster than they had left. Patton’s mental barriers were in shambles. Before, if something like this had happened, the memories would have been muted, easy to stuff back into their box. 

Now, the box was torn at the seams, and the flashbacks were crystal clear. He was there. Patton _was there._ He was so exhausted, he wasn’t outright sobbing anymore. The world felt blurry at the edges, and the memories flitting through his mind made him shiver and his stomach roil, but he just lay there, shivering and gasping into the dirt, letting loose the occasional whimper. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Logan said miserably. “Patton, I’m so sorry. I don’t—What do you need? What can I do?”

“We can move him into my hut,” Daveigh offered. “He may be less overwhelmed in there.” 

Patton vaguely remembered being carried. Mostly, he remembered the revulsion that shuddered through him at the feeling of being handled, but he was too tired to do much about it. 

The darkness of the shelter didn’t help him distract from the thoughts, but the rough texture of the flooring gave him something to rake his palms raw against. 

“Patton, please stop,” Logan pleaded from where he sat against the opposite wall, watching Patton with miserable helplessness. “I do not want to make things worse by touching you, but you can’t keep hurting yourself.”

_Sorry,_ Patton thought, retracting his hand and cradling it against his chest. 

Logan knocked his head back against the wall in defeat. “I should have been paying more attention. I should have realized and stopped her.”

_It’s not your fault, _Patton wanted to say, but he felt a million miles away from his body. A child suspended in a bubble he couldn’t reach the edges of to pop. 

The daylight outside gradually faded into the yellowy glow of evening. Logan never left his seat, eventually asking Patton to blink yes or no to confirm he was doing better, and whether he wanted anything to eat. After all, they hadn’t eaten anything since before the fight with Ursula. Patton conceded, and numbly rose to a seat while Logan went to petition their new neighbors about the food situation. 

Patton thought back to the night before everything had gone wrong. Singing Roman to sleep. 

A few tears that had somehow remained unscathed during his meltdown escaped down his cheeks. As raw and vulnerable as he was at the moment, there was nothing keeping him from feeling the crushing weight of missing his friends. He remembered Virgil’s face when Patton had returned his talisman to him. 

The kiss. 

Nothing more than the heat of the moment, Patton was sure, but he relished it anyway. If he never saw Roman or Virgil again, which very well may be the case, at least he’d have memories. 

Good or bad, it seemed Patton could never escape them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "stressing and repressing" has to be one of my favorite lines. 
> 
> Also, Daveigh is pronounced (da-VAY) incase anyone was having some trouble.


	23. the world of shut doors and countless walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman defends his friend from a demon, and Logan thinks through some things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: graphic depictions of violence (stabbing), blood, mild panic
> 
> The title for this chapter is from 'The Ruins of Bam' by Garous Abdolmalekian.

Roman sliced and buttered Dorian a piece of bread from the loaf Patton had baked just before their whole word had flipped around, pretending not to notice Virgil stand with his back pressed against the pantry door, right where he could see both Dorian and Remus. 

The demon sat innocently on one of the kitchen stools, waiting for his food. Roman glanced over at the hobgoblin, who was nonchalantly blowing snot bubbles to entertain himself. Remus didn’t seem all that concerned for his own safety. Either he didn’t care about his own well being, or was confident Virgil would petition for his survival. 

Roman handed the bread to Dorian, who accepted it graciously. He leaned back against the counter, enjoying his own toasted bread. Roman was fairly certain that the demon didn’t need to eat. 

It had probably been a long time since he’d eaten anything substantial.

Roman’s bread turned sour on his tongue as a dark thought entered his mind. Had it been his mother?

He felt nauseous and wasn’t sure he could swallow what he’d bitten off. 

“So,” Dorian said, happily munching on the bread, “did Ursula end up killing the sibyl and the boring one?”

Roman choked on his toast. 

Virgil’s folded arms tightened against his chest. “She displaced them.”

“Oh? Where to?”

Roman recovered, swallowing painfully. “You know, for not wanting to help at all, you seem awfully interested.”

He leaned back in his chair, defiant. “Intrigued, more like.”

“She sent them to Kulong,” Virgil said, glancing over at Roman. Concern flashed across his features, and Roman, leaning casually against the counter, shoulders relaxed as he desperately tried to stop thinking about how his mother died, wondered how Virgil could tell something was wrong.

The demon’s eyebrows shot up, an unabashed laugh pealing out of him. “The prison island? Ha! That’s too perfect.”

“You really tiptoed around our feelings, huh?” Roman snorted, looking down to hide the pain lancing through his eyes.

Dorian shrugged, continuing around the bread in his mouth, “You need to get that sibyl back if you’re going to have any chance of defeating Ursula. There hasn’t been an oracle born for nearly half a millennium. You’d be fools to waste such talent.”

Virgil stilled. “Wait, an _oracle?_ Patton’s not an oracle. There’s no way.”

Dorian stared at him. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m pretty sure I would have noticed if I was living with an oracle.”

“You’ve spent too much time with these mortals,” the demon sighed, giving up. 

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Virgil muttered, averting his eyes. 

“Please,” he sneered, gesturing at Virgil’s human form. “You’re a familiar for Witch Queen’s sake, yet you _pretend_ like this. It’s shameful.”

“You don’t know a thing about me,” he hissed. Virgil gripped his talisman inside his pocket so hard Roman worried he might shatter it.

“That’s enough, Dorian,” Roman said, voice low and warning. The demon looked anything but placated, an eager grin playing at his semi-scaled face. Roman’s mind registered the shift in tension, and he found his eyes scouting the kitchen. 

“I doubt you could tell a kelpie from a red cap anymore.”

“Shut up.”

Roman pushed off the counter, grabbing the loaf of bread and walking over to the knife block, his posture the epitome of calm.

“Oh?” Dorian growled, his voice inhumanly low. “Say it again, familiar. I dare you.” The stool scraped against the tile as he rose to his feet. Roman could practically smell the barely contained fear radiating from Virgil. He casually grabbed two steak knives. 

Dorian’s lip curled and his hand shot out.

Roman reacted almost in tandem with the demon, whirling around and impaling Dorian’s hand onto the counter before his arm had even fully extended. Not a moment later, the second knife thudded between the demon’s ribs. 

Virgil recoiled so violently he slammed into the pantry door, disappearing into a streak of black dashing up the stairs. 

Dorian grimaced. “You insufferable child,” he spat, the black blood filling his mouth spattering across Roman’s face. 

Roman didn’t even flinch. 

“You are a guest in my house, snake,” he snarled. “I suggest you treat my friends with respect.”

“You can’t—”

Roman twisted the knife. “No. _You _can’t. You can’t kill me, and unless you want me making your new freedom as miserable as possible, you’ll leave Virgil alone.”

“You’ll only waste what little time you have.”

Roman pulled the knives out with a squelch and walked over to the sink. “If you aren’t going to help us, leave us alone.” He pumped soap into a sponge and scrubbed the black liquid off the utensils. 

“I just want to make sure you kill her. That’s it.” Dorian muttered, his wounds sparking with magic as they healed. 

“Aw, Dory, you’re worried about me.”

“I most certainly am not.”

Roman wagged one of the newly clean knives in his direction, smiling as if he hadn’t just stabbed him twice. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Dorian bristled. “You are well aware I’m incapable of the function.”

Roman winked.

* * *

Logan supposed he should have been more interested in Patton’s studies with Daveigh. However, he couldn’t “read” any of the prophetic text that they apparently could, and he was too rife with worry over Patton’s well being to properly investigate it. 

After a night to for Patton to recover, Daveigh apologized profusely and promised never to do anything remotely similar to what she’d done yesterday without asking permission first. Patton had forgiven her almost immediately. Logan, however, was slower to trust. 

After a surprisingly plentiful breakfast of various roots and fruits, everyone had gone about their business. 

That is, expect Logan. He didn’t exactly have much in the way of “business” at the moment.

He sat only a few feet from Patton, leaning back against a tree trunk and trying not to seem too distracted as they went on and on about their abilities and the history of oracles. 

Mikhail milled about camp completing various chores. Jorryn had disappeared at the rise of the sun and hadn’t been seen since. 

The air was humid, but not as hot as yesterday. A cacophony of bird calls echoed around the valley, filling the air with a sort of white noise for Logan to lose himself in. 

He thought about Killian. 

Eudora had called him a master arcanist, and there had been something in him that intrigued Logan. He looked as if he’d once been well respected. A teacher of some kind? Perhaps it was that commonality that drew him to the man? 

_Be wary of conjecture,_ his father’s words echoed in his mind. _You don’t know he’s anything yet. List what you know. Go from there._

A sad smile played at Logan’s lips. If anyone would have known how to handle their current situation, it would have been him. 

_List what I know,_ he told himself. They were on an island—most likely in the Pacific given the climate. He and Patton were alive and uninjured. Reminded of his injuries, Logan ran his tongue across the tooth that had cracked when he’d fallen into the ocean. 

It was fine. As if nothing had happened. 

He remembered what Patton had said about Eudora healing them that night, ridding them of their need for glasses. Patton no longer sported the scars Remus had clawed into his cheek either. Logan was grateful, even if the idea of being grateful to the ill-mannered witch made him grimace. 

What else? A relatively hostile green man, two oracles, a mentally scarred arcanist, and Mikhail. He’d called himself a magicless witch earlier, which made Logan wonder as to his reason for being imprisoned. 

Logan could ascribe his own capture to accident. Mikhail, on the other hand, seemed like a powerful leader. An ambassador, perhaps? Still, Logan had no clue what the title “master arcanist” meant. How was that different from being a witch? As for Jorryn, Logan was even more in the dark on his abilities. The Fey hadn’t exactly been a topic of study for him until very recently. 

_What do I do?_ he pleaded at the canopied sky.

The answer came without resistance. Logan knew exactly what his father would have replied.

_Gather more data. The answer’s here, but you can’t connect dots you can’t see._

“Lo?” Patton inquired gently, placing a hand on Logan’s knee. He blinked, returning to the present.

“Where’s Daveigh?” he asked, looking around.

“She had to, er, use the restroom,” Patton said as gracefully as possible. “How are you? You look bored—and you’re _never _bored.”

Logan sat up off the tree and ran a hand through his hair. “How could I be bored? We’re stuck on a mysterious, magical island,” he said with more contempt than he’d meant. Sighing, Logan supplemented, “Sorry, Patton. I did not mean to be snappish.”

Patton stuck him with a meaningful look, pulling his crossed ankles closer to himself. “Come on. Something’s distracting you. What’s on your mind?”

Logan opened his mouth to reply, but found a trickle of guilt running down the back of his throat. “It… It’s nothing important. I’m more concerned with making sure you’re okay.” 

Patton’s smile became a bit more deliberate. “I’m just fine, Logan. I promise.” Before Logan could point out yesterday’s incident, he continued, “Yes, I’m glad you were here to help me out yesterday, but we figured out why it happened for the most part, and it won’t happen again.”

“For the most part?” Logan echoed dubiously. 

“Tell me what you were thinking,” Patton insisted, and Logan reluctantly capitulated the change in subject, though he fully intended on coming back to the issue. 

“I want to go see Killian.”

Patton’s brow furrowed, as if that wasn’t what he’d been expecting at all. “Why?”

Logan shrugged. “I’ve got a feeling. There’s something I need to learn from him.” 

“Why not go now?”

Logan desperately tried not to stare at Patton like he was a complete idiot. “I’m not leaving you alone here.”

He smiled innocently. “I’ll be perfectly fine, Lo.”

“We’ve known these people for all of eighteen hours. I doubt that qualifies them for unmitigated trust,” Logan hissed, leaning forward and shooting a glance at Mikhail, who stood several feet away chopping wood with a stone axe. 

Patton’s smile grew exasperated, and he looked down at his feet, chuckling. 

“I’m sorry, did I say something amusing?” Logan asked, genuinely confused.

“No, sweetheart,” he replied, placing a hand on Logan’s cheek. “It’s just that there are very few people in this world I trust.” He gave his cheek a gentle pat and retracted his hand. “None of our new friends have made that list just yet. You don’t have to worry.”

Logan’s mind reeled as he desperately tried to recall what Patton had just said. His brain had metaphorically shorted out when Patton had touched him. 

“Um,” he said, blinking and lifting his own hand to his cheek. Logan met Patton’s eye. “This is unusual.”

Patton looked jittery, but in a good way. Like he’d just jumped off the highest platform at Wakeby Rec Center pool, his face flush and eyes bright. “What is?”

“You.” 

He laughed. “Thank you?”

Logan tried again for words—coherent ones this time. “You seem different.” 

Patton stood, brushing off his pants and stretching. Logan felt his face heat. 

“I guess I’m just feeling a bit more myself these days.”


	24. the precise sounds of a flower bud unwrapping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman is far more gentle than Virgil ever expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mild panic, mild sexual innuendo
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from "weeping" by Ross Gay

Roman ascended the stairs reluctantly. Half because he didn’t want to leave Dorian and Remus alone downstairs, and half because he was worried Dorian hadn’t been the only one that scared Virgil.

He’d made sure to wipe the black blood off his face as best he could with a washrag before coming up, but… 

He’d stabbed Dorian so easily. Roman told himself it was only because the demon was immortal and he’d known it wouldn’t kill him, but… Roman wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t have killed the demon several times already if it were possible.

_Did you ever… worry about changing?_

No. Roman didn’t worry about changing. He worried he _wasn’t. _That he’d been a killer long before he’d received the curse. Worried that he’d taken too much of a liking to his new way of life. Wondered if he’d find some other way to satisfy his violent side once this was all over because, deep down, he was scared he enjoyed it. Despite all the pain and frustration, there was something about the thrill of it all. Knowing that someone he passed on the street would never understand the things he’d done. The kind of power he had. 

Roman paused in front of Virgil’s door, hand on the knob. The image of his friend’s terrified face kept him from walking in unannounced. Instead, he called, “Virge? Can I come in?”

A soft word he couldn’t make out sounded from behind the door. Roman felt a soft tingle run over his skin as Virgil’s magic unlocked the doorknob, and he pushed it open. 

Virgil sat atop his bed, his back pressed up against the headboard. He had his knees against his chest, arms wrapped around them and lips pressed firmly into his jeans as he glared at the wall. His eyes were red, and puffy, and angry. 

“Are you…” Roman trailed off. He wasn’t okay. That, at least, was plainly obvious. “I, uh… I don’t— Well, sorry for, you know, back there and everything, I guess.” 

“It isn’t your fault I’m broken,” Virgil mumbled. 

“Don’t say—” Roman started, but found his voice far too harsh, and restarted, “I mean, it sucks you feel that way, because it isn’t true, but… Man, Logan’s leagues better at this than me,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

Virgil looked as if he would laugh, but instead blinked tears from his eyes. Roman felt like he was running up a downward escalator. Getting nowhere. How come it was so much easier comforting Patton?

“If you don’t want Dorian around, we can do this on our own. We don’t need him.” 

“Yes, we do.”

Roman walked over and sat down on the bed in front of Virgil. “I will figure something out either way, but I don’t want anything that will hurt you.” He placed a hand on Virgil’s ankle. “You’ve been through enough.” 

Virgil took a breath. “I just want this to all be over with. If Dorian helping us will make that happen faster, then I’m all for it.” 

_You don’t sound all for it,_ Roman wanted to say, but figured Virgil didn’t want to argue the point anymore. He watched his roommate fiddle with the talisman in his fingers. 

“You know, you really should put that thing on a bracelet or necklace. You wouldn’t want to lose it again,” Roman said, hoping to lighten the mood. Virgil always got so excited whenever he did magic with it.

Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to lift his friend’s spirits much. He closed his fist around the button. “It was, at first. When Ursula took it away as a punishment, I only managed to get the button back before I escaped to come live with you guys. I kept it buried by the pine tree out back most of the time.”

Somehow, Roman’s hatred for the witch simmered even deeper. 

Virgil sniffed, wiping his face and sitting up. “But yeah, I should put this on something. I’ve got some yarn around here somewhere…” He hopped off the bed and opened his dresser drawers—most of which sat empty the vast majority of the time. He owned only a small amount of clothing, despite them all offering to buy him some in the past. 

“Hey, Virge? Can I… ask you something?—And if it’s too personal or whatever, you don’t have to tell me, I promise!” he added quickly. 

A soft smile passed over his friend’s face. “Sure.”

“Your talisman makes you more powerful, right?”

“Not exactly,” he said, pulling out a tangle of purple yarn and beginning to unknot it. “I lost the ability to access my powers a few centuries ago. The talisman simply lets me use them again.” 

“Right,” Roman said, reeling a little from Virgil’s casual reminder that he was immortal—like his witch. It was so easy to forget. “So, um, why would Ursula make something like that for you?” he asked, watching Virgil carefully for signs of discomfort. “She obviously doesn’t want to help you.”

Virgil returned to the bed, fingers steadily working the yarn around itself. “I was useless to her otherwise and she couldn’t up and abandon me since I was her familiar, but it wasn’t her. She had someone else more experienced in that kind of magic make it for me.”

“Who was it?”

Virgil smiled again, and Roman’s stomach fluttered. He was breathtakingly beautiful when he was happy. 

“A witch named Amaryllis.”

The hair on the back of Roman’s neck stood up, the butterflies in his stomach wilting immediately. He turned to glance at the still-open doorway, rising to his feet in one fluid motion, making no sound.

Dorian slinked around the door frame, arms folded casually against his chest. Remus peeked around his legs, eyeing Roman warily. 

“While this is touching and all,” he drawled and Virgil started, the yarn slipping from his fingers, “I’ve been thinking about how you two are going to defeat the dragon witch.”

Roman’s stare didn’t waver from Dorian’s aggravating face, despite the demon acting as if he wasn’t in the room. 

“You said Amaryllis,” the demon said. It wasn’t a question. Virgil nodded, not so much frightened as he was irritated, and perhaps a bit embarrassed about what had happened downstairs. Roman stood, a protective barrier between them. 

Dorian spread his hands. “Well, you said we’d need to find someone to train the little prince. Who better?”

Virgil sat up, shoulders straightening somewhat. “I know you’re used to this little club of immortals, Bloodwyrm, but Amaryllis has been dead for several hundred years.”

Dorian winced slightly at the sobriquet, but waved a hand dismissively, the expression disappearing in a flash. “That shouldn’t be a problem. Not with that trinket of yours.” He gestured to the talisman. Virgil closed a fist around it. 

“What are you talking about?”

Dorian huffed, letting his hand drop. “You’re hopeless.” Roman gave the demon a warning look, and he rolled his eyes. “I mean your lack of knowledge concerning the subject is understandable given your situation, familiar, however I find it very _taxing_ to keep explaining everything to the both of you. Nature spirits almighty, _Remus_ knows more than you two!”

The hobgoblin perked up. “I do?”

“Don’t push your luck,” Dorian shot back. “I could swallow you whole, if I wanted.”

Remus wiggled his eyebrows. “I might be into it. Sounds fun.”

“It really isn’t,” Virgil breathed. His tone was enough to get Roman to turn his back on the demon. He looked sick, knees climbing back toward his chest. 

“Leave. We’ll make a plan tomorrow,” Roman said, with no room in his voice for negotiation. He heard Dorian sniff, but he obediently exited the room, stepping out into the hallway with Remus. Roman went to close the door, but paused, door halfway open. 

“Do you want me to leave?”

Virgil opened his mouth, but hesitated, fear flickering in his eyes. Roman hated that look. Especially directed at him. 

“Y—yeah,” he managed, swallowing. Virgil’s eyes scanned Roman. His face, his hands, his shoulders, searching for some sign that Roman would slam the door, bunch a fist, demand to know why he didn’t want him around. 

“Okay,” he said, an amiable smile sliding across his features. “I’m just down the hall if you need me, Virge.”

Virgil didn’t move. It didn’t even look like he was breathing. Waiting for the penny to drop. 

Roman stepped out into the hall, and closed the door behind him. 


	25. as the sun pulls the apple blossom inside out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan meets a kindred spirit on the island.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the title for this chapter is from Michael Sowder's "My Beloved's Eyes"

Logan followed the well-worn dirt trail through the trees, lost in thought. 

What was Patton doing? Would he be okay? Of course, he trusted Patton and knew he could take care of himself; it was the other variables that had him worried. Jorryn obviously didn’t like them. Mikhail was too quiet. Daveigh seemed apologetic, but careless—tended toward over-excitement, perhaps even clumsiness given the right—

And now Logan was profiling them all. Great. That couldn’t be healthy, but thankfully, Patton wasn’t around to tell him so. 

Why was he so_ jittery?_ No, not jittery. Stressed? Worried? Wound tight as a spring waiting to release? There was a word, somewhere, all simmering and caustic in the back of his mind, snickering to itself as he stumbled around in the dark searching for it. 

Unfortunately, he was too _something_ to figure it out. 

The treeline broke, revealing the ever-stormy sea. Logan hated it. He could still taste the brine, feel the sea water filling his sinuses. 

Wind buffeted him immediately, chilling him to his bones. 

Eudora stood out on the beach, fiery hair whipped by the ocean breeze, as it always seemed to be. Logan stood there for a long while, staring at her. At the rocky, black beach. At the choppy ocean that looked more gray-green and sickly than the cerulean blue he’d always heard about. Gnarled tangles of oceanic flora littered the shore like horrible demons, prowling for something to sink their teeth into. 

He wrapped his arms around his middle, wanting for a jacket. The memory of Virgil’s hoodie flashed through his mind. The fibers worn soft and fraying. The smell of pine and dirt roads after a storm. Logan wished the memory calmed him, but it only accentuated the negative space in his heart. They’d arrived with the clothes on their backs and nothing else. Their phones had fallen out in the ocean, but they wouldn’t have been able to call for help, anyway. Still, it would have been nice to have something to remind him of home.

Logan’s cheek tingled with the memory of Patton’s hand, and the tightness in his chest released an inch.

He swallowed, and turned away from the scene, making his way along the cliff to where it sloped onto the beach. He wasn’t in the mood to scramble down the craggy face. 

It was colder here than in the cradle of the island where Mikhail’s camp was. Salty mist from the crashing waves caressed his face, almost mockingly. Logan tried to keep from looking at and remembering himself tumbling helplessly beneath them.

Eudora didn’t look at him as he passed by her toward the cave, though he was sure she knew of his presence. 

Logan paused. He took a calming breath. _Gather more data. Then comes progress. _

“Why not build a boat?” he called over the wind that stole his voice away from him. 

She turned, the wind twisting her hair around her face. Her eyes were red and full of tears. “You think I haven’t thought of that, noke?” she sneered, even more hostile than when he’d left her yesterday.

Logan’s composure didn’t waver. “Where’s Killian?”

“What do you want with him?” she demanded, but her voice wavered with a streak of fear. He doubted it was directed at him, but the reason for the emotion intrigued him. 

“I want to learn from him.” 

“Don’t be a child,” she spat, tears spilling down her cheeks. Her hair tangled and flew into her mouth as she struggled to keep from breaking down. The witch pulled her hair away from her face, flinging it over a shoulder. “Leave. We don’t want you here.”

“I was not asking your opinion in the matter.”

“He is fragile,” she hissed, stepping up to him.

_Perhaps some __sort of __past__ relationship between the two of them? _he wondered off-handedly. 

“Then I will handle him with care. Please,” he said, allowing the first hints of pleading to enter his voice. “I mean to find a way off this island.” 

She turned her back to him, facing the ocean once more and scrubbing at her face furiously. “You’re a fool.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded, leaving the heavy silence hanging in the air for Eudora to fill. She folded her arms and turned away from him again. 

“He’s in the cave.” 

“Thank you.” Logan retreated, and though he was sure he could have figured out where the arcanist was without asking her, something in the back of his mind told him this witch was someone worth respecting. She was brash and rude, but then again, so was Logan. He couldn’t really fault her for that.

* * *

Once again, the sigil carved into the entrance silenced the wind the moment he crossed the threshold. The air went damp and dusty, warming a few degrees from the outside air. The central fire was out, weak fingers of smoke clawing their way through the air. Amber light leaked from farther within the cave, bending around a turn in the rocky walls. Logan approached slowly. For Killian’s sake, yes, but something wasn’t right either. His eyes narrowed, and he nearly stopped.

The light wasn’t flickering. It was steady, warm, and brassy.

He reached the corner and turned it.

Logan’s breath caught in his throat.

Killian squatted on his haunches, face slack with awe and wonder, illuminated by a glowing ball of light floating a hand’s length from his nose. His own miniature sun, but gentler. It didn’t blind Logan looking at it, and he could just barely feel the heat from it on his arms.

Logan started toward the orb, maintaining a slow, careful pace.

Killian glanced at him, his open mouth spreading into a knowing smile. Logan met his eyes and in that moment, he seemed as sane as anyone else.

“What is it?” Logan breathed.

Killian’s smile grew mischievous and without warning clapped his hands over the tiny sun, plunging them into thick darkness. Logan gasped. He heard the rustle of paper and a sharp fizzle, like a match striking.

Light shone through the darkness, and at first, Logan had to look away, the light bright, harsh, and white. It hissed and spat, cradled in Killian’s calloused, scarred hands like an angry fairy. After a few seconds, it calmed, settling into another warm amber orb. Killian let his hands drop away, and it bobbed a few times before settling several inches above the floor.

“Fantastic,” Logan breathed, falling back to a seat. Dust puffed outward in a small cloud, and Killian sneezed. Just below the orb he saw pieces of folded bark-paper littered across the floor at Killian’s feet.

He looked to the man, almost desperately. “Will you show me?”

Killian laughed, clapping his hands gleefully and plucking one piece of paper off the floor. Now that he was paying attention, Logan noticed the man’s voice was deep and sonorous, if not a little hoarse. Knotted, whitish scars pocked his forearms and hand, and he was missing the tip of his right middle finger. He had the broad shoulders of someone who had once been intimidating in stature, but had gone too long without proper nutrients.

Killian handed the paper to him, and Logan took it, finding black powder sprinkled inside. By the light of the glowing orb, he carefully unfolded it, making sure not to dump the powder out onto the floor. It was dark as midnight to his eye, but purple and green in the light, sparkling like a thousand oily stars.

Killian bit his fist, making short aborted movements, like he wasn’t sure what exactly he wanted to do. Meeting his eyes, however, Logan got an encouraging nod, so he kept going.

One of the interior sides of the bark was shiny with an unknown substance—applied wet and left to dry by the looks of it. Logan sniffed it, but couldn’t detect any odor. Closing the tiny paper, Logan held it between his thumb and middle finger.

“Ffff!” Killian said excitedly, pointing at the paper.

Logan nodded. “Friction to instigate some kind of chemical reaction, I’d guess.”

“Yes!” He bounced a little. “Yes, yes, yes,” he trailed off, playing with the word in his mouth.

Logan paused right as he was about to rub the paper together. “Will it burn me?”

“Ye—nnno. No,” he said, his eyebrows bunching in concern, then, “Mmm,” he said, wiggling his hand side to side.

“That isn’t exactly encouraging.”

Killian smiled at that, and some primal curiosity in Logan kicked into overdrive. Without missing a beat, the man plucked the paper from Logan’s fingers and guided the base of his palms together, sandwiching the paper between his hands. “K… Kwi—”

“Quickly? Of course.”

Killian smiled again.

Logan bit his lip and, with a sharp inhale, rubbed his hands together.

A second later, light was born between his fingers.

That same hissing sound filled his ears and vibrated up his arms. It was all Logan could do not to fling it away from him for fear of being burned. The thing was hot—painful, even—but not to the point of blistering.

Killian cupped his hands beneath Logan’s own, steadying them.

Logan let out a breathy laugh of relief as the ball of frantic white light settled down into a languid amber. The arcanist lifted Logan’s hands to eye-level and motioned for him to release the orb.

Once more, it bobbed a few times in the air before settling in front of Logan’s nose.

“Oh, its beautiful,” he sighed, feeling tears prick at his eyes. He felt like he’d just witnessed the birth of a universe.

Logan met his eyes and words tumbled out of him. “You aren’t insane in the slightest.”

Before he could feel mortified at what he’d just said, Killian’s chest rumbled with laughter, like the striking of a bell clapper. He pinched two fingers together. _Only a little._

“So, your mental faculties remain intact, but you have trouble forming words,” he figured, his mind beginning to whir with ideas. “Perhaps something to do with Broca’s aphasia? I’d have to know the specifics, but then again, this whole _magic-thing_ isn’t really my area of expertise.” He prodded the light with a finger. It moved away from him before he actually touched it, like a repelling magnet, bobbing for a moment before slowing to a stop again in its new position.

Killian shook his head and tapped a finger on his temple. “Sss… ssstill.”

“Still? Still what?”

A look of frustration passed over Killian’s face, and he wandered off into the darker recesses of his room. Logan waited patiently. He returned with a crumbling piece of slate, gesturing between himself and the rock.

“Okay, the rock is you.”

Killian smashed it on the ground at his feet. Logan jumped. He pointed at the shards. “Wwwuh,” he started, his voice going breathy as he tried to form the word. “Wuh—wi-hih-hitch,” he finished.

“Witch?” Logan offered. “You’re referring to what Ursula did to you?”

Killian nodded and gathered up the pieces and put them back together. He smiled, his face going soft. “Dor—rra”

“Dora?”

“Mmm,” he nodded, repeating the motion of putting the pieces back together again.

“_Eu_dora,” Logan realized. “She healed you?”

Killian wiggled his hand side to side again. He picked a small piece from the shattered stone and held it up. “Wwuh, worrrd,” he said, touching his lips, and then throwing the fragment away, into the darkness.

Logan steepled his fingers. “She tried to heal you, but your speech was still affected. I see.”

Killian held up the shattered stone, holding the pieces together. “Sss… still. Sti-hill!”

Logan looked at it, hoping he could discern what the arcanist was trying to convey. “The stone isn’t whole anymore. Even when you put the pieces back together,” Logan said, his voice going soft. “I understand. You have my sympathies.”

Killian scoffed and waved a hand dismissively, then pointed toward the exit of the cave. “Dora. Dora, Dora…”

Logan swallowed, knots tightening in his gut. “She blames herself, despite the situation being out of her control.”

The arcanist nodded.

“Yuh….yyyou,” he muttered, pointing at the folded papers on the floor. “Tiny.”

Logan’s brow knit. “You said that at the beach yesterday.”

Killian paced around the cave, stopping and turning back on his tracks several times, as if he couldn’t decide where he wanted to go. “Yes. T—Tiny. Buh…. _buh__!”_

Logan felt apprehension sprout within him. “Killian, remain calm. We can figure this out., but you need to—”

“Tiny, _but!” _he shouted triumphantly.

“Mine’s average size, actually,” Logan said.

Killian looked on the verge of tears.

”Tiny but g… guh!”

”Good?”

Killian shook his head furiously.

Logan sighed. “If you’re trying to say gay, I promise you I’m well aware.”

That, at least, garnered a chuckle from the man. He pointed once more from Logan to the paper, and then to the floating orbs of light.

“Guh... great.”

“Great? Tiny but great?"

Killian smiled, lowering to a cross-legged seat on the floor, content. He herded the two orbs of light close together.

“What does that mean? I don’t understand.”

The arcanist flashed another lupine smile and clapped his hands over the lights, plunging them into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anything in this chapter came off as disrespectful to those with speech impediments, that was not my intention. Killian is a fictional character affected by the aftereffects of magic, and is not representative of all people with speech impediments or stutters.


	26. he'll fashion a cage of flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman's protective streak makes an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: graphic imagery, threats
> 
> The title for this chapter is taken from Shanan Ballam's "Wolf Tracks Red Riding Hood".

The “little prince,” as Bloodwyrm called him, closed Virgil’s door with a click, looking for a moment as if he would murder the floorboards. Remus hadn’t really spoken to the boy-witch yet, but he had a prickly aura. Like sniffing black pepper. 

“Downstairs,” he growled, his eyes dark. “Now.”

“After you,” the demon sneered, stepping aside. The stairs were just this side of too steep for Remus’s shorter leg-span, and it was all he could do to keep up with the pair. His foot caught, and he pitched forward. Letting out a tiny yelp of surprise, Remus latched onto the leg of Bloodwyrm’s slacks. 

The demon froze, holding its foot mid-stride while Remus righted himself. Icy dread slithered down the back of Remus’s throat. He tensed for whatever kind of punishment the serpent saw fit to give. 

“Let go,” it hissed. 

“Yeah,” Remus choked, prying his fingers from their death grip on its clothing. It didn’t give him so much as a second glance before continuing down the stairs, straightening its cuffs. Remus followed, the cold of the kitchen floor shocking his bare, clawed feet. 

Roman leaned his elbows on the counter and pressed his lips into his hands. 

“What do you want?”

Bloodwyrm cocked an eyebrow. “You’re going to have to be more specific. I want many things.”

Remus scampered up the leg of a stool, having to stand to reach the countertop. Roman glanced his way with a look of curiosity edging into wariness, but said nothing, returning his attention to the bigger threat. 

Just the way Remus liked it. He wasn’t one for the spotlight. He wasn’t a leader. What he was, was a thief. A mischief maker. Someone who looked idiotic enough to disregard until it was too late. Someone who ran after the heels of the bigger players and picked up the scraps. 

Bloodwyrm was the biggest player—and hopefully, if Remus could make himself useful enough, the demon would care enough to protect him from Ursula since he’d abandoned his mission of bringing Virgil’s talisman back to her. What’s more, if Kitty and his gang of increasingly powerful friends teamed up with Bloodwyrm, his chances of survival went up significantly. 

No. Not Kitty. Virgil. Remus had to remember that if he didn’t want the familiar finally losing patience and cooking him like a pixie in a stockpot. Besides, with his new friends around, he’d have no chance of intimidating the guy—especially compared to Bloodwyrm. 

“What do you want from me to guarantee Virgil’s peace of mind?” Roman said, the anger in his eyes edging on desperation. Remus barely restrained himself from shaking his head. Rookie move. Never reveal how desperate you are. 

“You ask a paradox of me, little prince. The only way that familiar—”

“His name is Virgil,” Roman cut in, bristling. 

“Whatever. The only way he’ll find comfort is if I leave, but you have requested my assistance. Which will it be?”

“You don’t have to leave,” the boy-witch amended. “But could you maybe… be a bit gentler?”

Remus bust out laughing. “Are you kidding? You want Drok’ben, the Bringer of Death, to be gentle?” He settled down, wiping a tear from his eye. Too much laughter, and he’d show his nerves. “You’re an idiot, boy.”

Roman pinned the demon to the chair with his gaze. The look was so potently honorable, Remus wanted to vomit. “He was a mortal man like me, once. Trusting, friendly… kind, even.” 

The demon grew still as stone in its chair. The air dropped a few degrees, but Roman powered through by sheer force of will. 

“I’m sure he’s got it inside himself somewhere.” 

“That man died long ago.”

“No, he didn’t.” The witch smiled. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be sitting here, offering to help.” 

Bloodwyrm met his eyes unflinchingly. From his vantage point, Remus couldn’t see the demon’s eyes, but the hang of its shoulders told him the little prince was winning this fight. 

“You’ve a funny way of twisting things in your favor, don’t you?”

“So I’ve heard,” Roman said, grin stretching mischievously. He inhaled sharply, standing straight and clapping his hands together. Remus jumped. “So! We don’t exactly have a guest bedroom around here, but you’re more than welcome to the couch or… whatever outdoor accommodations you may prefer,” he shrugged. 

Bloodwyrm glanced at the brown couch, nose wrinkling. 

Roman snorted. “Please, you slept in a forest for the past year. I’m sure a couch is quite the upgrade for you.”

The demon straightened its caplet, turning up its nose. “I will return in the morning. I need to… stretch,” it said and turned on its heel, disappearing through the back door in a flap of yellow silk and shiny scales. 

Remus suddenly found himself alone with the boy-witch, though his back was toward the goblin, staring out into the night. Remus lowered off the stool and began making his way toward the still-open basement door. He wasn’t leaving, by any means, that would completely upset his plan of hanging around Bloodwyrm for protection. However, he wasn’t the biggest fan of being so out in the open with possible hostile parties. 

He was only halfway toward the hall when the witch said softly, “Wait here a moment, Remus.” 

The hobgoblin froze, heart thumping, mind racing with images of the boy stabbing Bloodwyrm with ease. How easily such a creature could kill someone like him. 

The witch turned his amber eyes on him. There was no fear in them. The eyes of a hunter—an experienced one. 

“I will not tolerate you tormenting Virgil. You will treat him with the respect he deserves or so help me I will skin you alive with your own teeth. Do I make myself clear?” 

Remus nodded so vigorously he lost brain cells. 

Roman took a step forward, folding his arms across his chest. “A few more things. Do you know more than Virgil regarding Ursula’s plans?”

“Not likely. She isn’t exactly a trusting woman.”

“Who do you fear more than me? Specifically.”

“I—In order?”

He bared his teeth in a smile. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

Remus nibbled on a corner of his floppy ear and looked the boy-witch over. Did he fear him more than Ursula? The witch was violent when she was angry, cared little for the wellbeing of others, and manipulated everyone she came into contact with, but she wasn’t cruel. If she didn’t need you, she either abandoned you or killed you quickly. There was something in Roman’s eyes that assured the boy-witch could be far more sadistic if given the chance. 

“Well, you’re definitely above the dragon witch,” he said, looking away. 

“But you fear Dorian more?”

“I think so.”

“You aren’t sure?”

Remus fidgeted some more. “No, I’m not. Can I go now, please?” He winced at the polite expression. He’d never uttered the word before in seriousness.

Appearing mollified, Roman gave a curt nod and turned back to staring out the window. 

Remus didn’t waste any time scampering into the blessed confines of the dark cellar.


	27. imaginary gardens with real toads in them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patton makes an unprecedented trip to a cottage in the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the title of this chapter comes from "Poetry" by Marianne Moore.

Patton sat across the fire from Mikhail, the surrounding jungle alive with the buzzing of insects in the humid night air. 

Jorryn snored from high up in a tree, mouth hanging slightly ajar and arm dangling limply. Daveigh sat close enough to the fire to study her scrolls, but not close enough to risk burning them. She muttered to herself softly, occasionally switching scrolls and comparing the two. She’d been on a quest to find mention of Patton in any one of them, but had yet to be successful. 

“Logan has not returned,” Mikhail said, uttering his first words of the night.

Daveigh had her head cocked to the side, inspecting a line of prophetic text. “I’m sure he’s fine,” she said absently. “The beach isn’t that far.”

Mikhail cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing, stoking the fire with a long staff. The man had been carving the other end with a stone blade for the past few minutes, but Patton still couldn’t tell what it was supposed to be. 

“Hey, do you know your maternal great grandfather’s name, by chance?” Daveigh asked. 

Patton wiped his hands on his pants. “No. She, uh… didn’t really talk about her family.”

Her eyebrows knit in frustration and she set the scroll down. “With someone as powerful as you, there can’t be nothing here. It’s impossible.”

“There aren’t any predators on the island, are there?” Patton blurted, looking to Mikhail. 

The man paused for a moment before conceding, “A few.” Daveigh glanced at them both, but said nothing. 

Terrifying ideas flashed through Patton’s mind and he stood. “I’m going to find him,” he declared, but hesitated, waiting for Mikhail to object or demand to accompany him through the woods at night. 

Instead, he flipped his carving knife around and held the handle out toward Patton.

“Are you sure?”

Mikhail nodded. “I know a warrior when I see one.” Daveigh smiled, sharing his sentiment. A spark of warmth erupted in Patton’s chest and he took a step—

Patton’s knees buckled. His mind went fuzzy, pounding like he’d pressed his head against a loud speaker. 

Daveigh said his name, but he couldn’t hear it. 

Mikhail surged to his feet. 

Patton fell toward the fire. 

…

_Patton blinked. He was sitting on a rough wooden floor, a fire crackling in a heart to his left. A woman sat in a very comfortable-looking armchair, her coal-smoke hair piled atop her head and a thick book held in the crook of her arm. She wore a billowy green blouse, brown leather corset, and cotton pants. _

_She didn’t look up at him. _

_Patton had never had a dream while he was awake before. Did that mean it was getting worse? What if it started happening all the time? He’d never escape them. _

_Patton tried to calm himself, looking around at the small cottage and noticing the details. The round dining table with legs carved into writhing tentacles. The assortment of tiny skulls and bones set in neat rows across each window seal. The overwhelming amount of candles in every shape, size, and color. The bundles of dried herbs tied with twine and hung from the ceiling. _

_“This is a dream,” Patton whispered, though he hadn’t expected _ _to _ _actually _ _say_ _ it out loud. His stomach bottomed out. He’d never been able to control himself in his dreams. He _ _simply _ _lived the future as it would play out, a silent observer in his own mind. Panic plucked at his heart._

_“Not quite a dream, actually,” the woman said, tucking a rich crimson ribbon into the center crease of the pages and closing the book. “It appears you’re astral projecting.” _

_“What?” Patton breathed, still trying to digest what was going on. He was completely lucid. If not for the familiar feeling in his gut that always came with his premonitions, he’d have never even known he was dreaming. _

_The woman studied him carefully, but kept her body language relaxed. “You’re an oracle, that’s for sure... You haven’t died recently, have you?”_

_Patton’s blood froze. “Am I dead? Did I _die? _No, no, no, I can’t—Logan’s going to be all alone, and, __oh__ how could I do something like that to him?” _

_“Hey, look at me. Take a deep breath, okay? In,” she instructed, leaning forward, guiding him with a hand, “and out. Good. Now, hold on one moment and I’ll find out for sure.” _

_Patton continued taking shaky breaths, barely keeping his mind from snowballing into panic. His hands grew slick and _ _started to tremble_ _. “I—I’m sorry, ma’am, but I don’t know where I am. Could you, um, tell me? Please?”_

_“You’re in my house, and you’ll be safe here,” the woman replied with a soothing smile as she searched her kitchen. “Let’s leave it at that until we get some more answers, yeah? What can I call you?”_

_“Patton.”_

_“A strong name. You can call me Amaryllis. Do you like tea, Patton?”_

_“Not really.” _

_“How about honey-water with lemon?”_

_“I’m good, thank you,” Patton breathed, praying she didn’t keep pressing. Thankfully, she didn’t. Patton sort of had a thing with strangers giving him things to drink. _

_“There we are!” she said, plucking a small cinch bag out of a cupboard. She returned to her seat, sitting on the edge and pulling a pinch of white powder from inside. “Hold out your hand, please.”_

_Patton did so, however reluctantly. For the first time, he that his body shimmered, as if he weren’t completely solid. Before he could freak out abut it, Amaryllis sprinkled it onto the palm of his hand in a gentle circle. _

_Nothing happened. _

_“Well! Looks like you’re not a ghost, kid,” she said, grinning. “Definitely astral projecting in that case. If you were dead, it would have fallen straight through your—”_

_The powder suddenly went crimson as blood, and Amaryllis’s face went slack with astonishment. _

_“What? What is it?” Patton asked anxiously._

_She laughed, brushing the powder from his palm into her own and _ _walking quickly_ _ to the kitchen again, siphoning it into a small bottle and corking it. “Were you going to tell me you’re the most powerful oracle to walk the Earth, or was I just supposed to figure that out on my own?”_

_Patton brushed his hand on his pants. “I don’t think I’m the most powerful.”_

_Amaryllis shook her head, laughing. “You’re astral projecting from the _future_ and you don’t think you’re powerful?”_

_Patton’s mouth went dry. “Excuse me?” _

_She held the bottle up to eye level, scrutinizing the contents. “Several centuries by the looks of it.”_

_“Am I… stuck? How do I get back?” Patton said. “I’ve never—”_

_“Quiet,” Amaryllis hissed, her head snapping to her window. She cursed under her breath and hid the bottle in her pocket. “Hurry, sit in that corner and don’t make any noise.”_

_Patton obeyed, scooting back against the brick of the fireplace._

_She raised a hand and intoned, _“Skry ka’fjendahl,” _and returned to her seat, opening the book she’d been reading and looking as casual as ever. _

_He didn’t sense any difference, but before he could ask her about it, the door slammed open and Patton’s heart crawled into his throat. Ursula stepped through the doorway, Remus at her heels. Patton didn’t dare breathe._

_Amaryllis sighed. “You know, Ursula, maybe if you had more manners—”_

_“Oh, shut up, Amaryllis. I need a favor.”_

_She closed her book “A favor?” _

_Ursula scowled. “I broke you out of a demon-guarded dungeon, you know.”_

_Patton’s mind whirled at a hundred miles an hour. If he was in the past… then that must mean…_

_Amaryllis winced. “More like blowing a hole in the wall and letting us take care of the rest,” she muttered. “Fine. What do you want?”_

_Ursula shoved Remus out of the way with her foot and stepped aside, blocking Patton’s view of the doorway. “My familiar’s broken.” _

_Patton’s fear settled into a simmering rage, his hands trembling for an entirely different reason. _

_“Really?” she said skeptically. “Which one is he?”_

_“Don’t be smart,” Ursula snapped. _

_A beautiful black cat slinked past the witch at the door, ears pressed flat against his head. Virgil’s tail dragged and his belly practically brushed the floor as he crept forward submissively. Angry tears pricked in Patton’s eyes. _

_“I’m going to need you two to step outside,” Amaryllis said, her voice dangerously soft. _

_“Are you serious?” Ursula demanded. _

_“As the constellation,” she replied with a dangerous smile. Patton thought he’d wring the dragon witch’s neck if not for the threat of horribly messing up the future. He hadn’t exactly time traveled before and wasn’t sure of the rules. What if something he did kept the four of them from meeting? _

_Patton couldn’t bear the thought. _

_“Whatever,” Ursula muttered, turning on her heel and pinning Virgil with a glare. He took half a step back toward the kitchen, watching as both she and the hobgoblin left. _

_Amaryllis grabbed her book and reopened it, leaning back into her chair. “Finally,” she sighed, touching her finger to her tongue and turning a page. “She’s such a terror, isn’t she?”_

_Patton couldn’t take his eyes off Virgil, tears blurring him into a black smudge. A mixture of overwhelming grief at seeing Virgil in such a horrible situation and elation at _ _simply _ _seeing him again made it hard to keep quiet. _

_“Oh, you’re quite alright the way you are, Virgil,” she said, not looking up from her book. Virgil stiffened. Patton’s brow furrowed. Was she speaking with him somehow? He thought only Ursula could get inside his friend’s head. _

_And he _was _his friend, even though _this _Virgil had no clue who Patton was. _

_The exchange was one-sided from Patton’s point of view, but he didn’t care. Just getting to be in the same room with Virgil was enough for him. _ _Emotion so potent he was surprised_ _ Virgil couldn’t smell it rattled around in his chest, begging to _ _be released_ _. _

_Virgil approached Amaryllis warily, taking her up on her offer of affection, and his tail almost brushed Patton’s ankle. The witch caught his eye with a warning look and he nodded, though tears were streaming down his face. He rejoiced at Virgil’s acceptance of her, yearned to comfort him when he got scared and pulled away, and started crying all over again when Ursula came to retrieve him afterwards. _

_Amaryllis closed the door behind the dragon witch and her familiar, letting her hands drop to her sides. _

_“Are you okay, kid?” she asked wearily. _

_Patton wiped his face. “I know Virgil_ _ in the future_ _,” he said. Butterflies erupted within him—in fact, his entire body started buzzing. “And… well, I think I might be in—”_

Patton gasped, his eyes flying open. Everything hurt and his entire frame was shaking. Tears welled in his eyes and blurred everything around him. Warm hands cupped his face, and the familiarity of them tempered his initial spike of fear. 

“Patton? I came as fast as I could. Can you hear me?” Logan pleaded. 

“I’m okay, Lo,” he managed, sitting up. 

“Oh, thank goodness. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have left you alone, I shouldn’t—”

Patton placed a hand on his cheek and he closed his mouth so fast his teeth clacked. “I promise I’m okay. More than okay actually.” 

“What did you see?” Daveigh asked from several feet away. 

Logan visibly stiffened, a snarl ready on his lips. Patton brushed his thumb across Logan’s cheekbone. “It wasn’t her fault, Lo.” 

Logan looked at him, and something that Patton could only describe as guilt flashed through his eyes. He pulled away, and Patton let his hand drop. 

“I astral projected into the past,” he said, perhaps more casually than he should have. 

Daveigh choked. “Excuse me?” 

“How can you be sure?” Logan asked. 

Patton crossed his legs, feeling more grounded by the minute. “I watched Virgil get his talisman.”

Logan started, but said nothing. 

Daveigh pinched the bridge of her nose. “Please tell me you didn’t interact with anyone.” 

“I spoke to a witch named Amaryllis, but she hid me from everyone else so—” 

“Amaryllis?” Daveigh gasped, looking up. Her eyes were immediately wet. “Did she have a scar on her cheek?”

Patton thought back carefully. “No, I don’t think so.”

Daveigh chuckled, folding her arms and looking at the ground. “She hadn’t met me, yet,” she said. 

“You knew her?” Logan asked. 

“We were lovers… eventually,” she said. Her expression darkened. “I would have grown old and died with her if it weren’t for Ursula.”

The image of Virgil’s terrified feline form at Ursula’s feet returned to Patton’s mind and his anger sparked once more. He stood up, Logan ready for anything next to him. 

“Can you teach me to control it?” 

Daveigh looked up. “What, astral projecting? Of course.” 

Patton turned to Logan, but he’d already connected the dots. “You could communicate with Roman and Virgil,” he breathed, astonished. 

Daveigh smirked. “Alright. We start in the morning."


	28. even in paradise you have to pay attention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman isn't the best at coping mechanisms, but can you blame him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: (indirect) self-harm, negative self-talk, graphic depictions of violence/gore
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from "Hiking at Oselong, Tibetan Buddhist of Andalucia" by Michael Sowder

Roman didn’t sleep. He stood at the kitchen window, staring into the darkness, glancing at the flickering oven clock every few minutes, and imagining the tree-line he couldn’t see from here until the first hints of morning light crept over the surrounding rooftops. 

Roman resurfaced from the thoughts he’d lost himself in for several hours, stumbling back a step. His knee joint popped, and an ache radiated up his feet and legs. Moving his mouth, he found his tongue sandpapery and stale. His jaw was stiff, like he’d been clenching his teeth all night. Roman rubbed his face, groaning and lowering onto a stool. 

This had happened before, nearly every night, though he usually contained himself in his bedroom so the others didn’t worry. 

Reaching into the neck of his shirt, Roman pulled the amulet up over his head. Miniscule sparks of discomfort ricocheted down his back and legs as the aches disappeared. He stared at the blood-red gem in his hands in disgust. 

‘_I don’t need you’_ sat hesitantly on the tip of his tongue. 

He could almost hear the amulet sneering at him. _Get rid of me, then. See how long you last. _

The urge to fight something had been simmering inside him the entire night and was reaching a fever pitch. He didn’t know where Dorian was and doubted the demon would indulge his violent request, especially given that he’d only just escaped the curse he’d been battling for centuries. 

Roman’s eyes drifted to the cellar door. The remnant scorch marks from Virgil’s containment spell still marred the wood, and the door hung slightly ajar, the shadowy staircase beckoning to him. 

Securing the amulet around his neck once more, Roman grabbed a paring knife from the kitchen. 

He stopped outside the cellar door, hesitating for only a moment before disappearing into the darkness and closing the door behind him.

* * *

Virgil came awake suddenly, tensing and knocking the back of his head against the wall. Looking around his room, he found that he’d fallen asleep sitting up against his headboard. Virgil’s hand immediately went to his pocket for his talisman, but felt nothing. 

“No, no, no,” he muttered, turning out every pocket. Panic shot through him, his heart constricting in his chest. Something scratched against his neck. Reaching to readjust his jacket, Virgil’s fingers found the yarn he’d tied there. Adrenaline leaked out of him as he remembered taking Roman’s advice earlier. He hadn’t worn it around his neck in ages. 

Virgil stared at the button between his fingers. He hated how much he needed it. A steady reminder of how truly broken he was inside. How weak. 

Glancing at the blind-slatted window, he saw the morning had just barely arrived. What kind of plan had Roman and Dorian concocted by now? The mere idea of that monster being inside the same building, let alone within arm’s reach of him, sent shivers down his spine. Every time he met that yellow slit eye, it transported him back to the witch queen’s study, encountering Dorian for the first time. 

Really, it was a question of who he wanted to tolerate more. Ursula or Dorian? 

The demon was the initial source of his trauma, and in comparison, whatever Ursula had done seemed inconsequential. But the trauma itself had been so long ago—several human life-times ago—Virgil felt foolish being hung up about it. Truthfully, he thought he’d been getting over it somewhat until Dorian thought it’d be fun to chase him around the forest and almost kill him. Again. 

Ursula was uncomfortable to be around, but she was familiar. Virgil knew what she could do and when she usually did it. He knew her moods and how to predict them. With her, he felt a modicum of control over what happened to him, however small and insignificant it may have been. 

With Dorian, it was a complete guessing game. 

Virgil’s thoughts halted, ears perking to the familiar creak of the cellar door being opened.

* * *

Remus eyed the kitchen knife Roman held out to him by the blade in the relative darkness of the cellar. Roman hadn’t bothered turning on the lights—to keep things interesting. Shelves of holiday decorations, old winter clothes Patton had been meaning to break out, and Logan’s tools sectioned the room into aisles. The room smelled of exposed wood and unfinished cement floors. The furnace sat in the corner and plumbing snaked along the unfinished ceiling Logan had always talked about fixing at one point but never got around to. 

“Why not just stab yourself?” the goblin asked, taking the knife carefully, as if not fully believing what Roman was suggesting. 

Roman gave a dead-eyed smile. “Takes the fun out of it.”

“You could kill me easily. How come you get the amulet?” Remus said, testing the grip and twirling the blade around his hand a few times. 

“Because it’s mine,” Roman said, itching to begin, “and because I won’t be trying to kill you.”

Remus pointed the knife at him like a teacher scolding a student. “Nothing fatal.”

“Yep.”

“… and no broken bones.”

“Fine.” 

“Great,” the goblin said, baring his pointed teeth in a grin. Roman blinked and Remus had already slashed him across the cheek and scampered off into the darkness. 

The faint morning light trickling in through the small basement window gave Roman a general outline of shelves and objects, but not much else. Using his ears was going to be his best bet. 

Roman’s knees bent and he lifted his arms to guard his face as he inched through the dark cellar, breathing slowly and feeling more at home than he had since the curse had broken. 

Something clattered to his right, and Roman stopped but didn’t turn. Remus was using the noise both to distract him and cover the sound of his own footsteps. Clever. 

“Can you see in the dark?” Roman asked casually, continuing his slow creep forward. Remus was somewhere to his left, probably on the ground from the lack of noise, but he couldn’t be sure. 

No response. At least the goblin had common sense. To be safe, Roman assumed the creature could. It gave him quite the disadvantage, but he was used to that. What he _wasn’t _used to was fighting something so much smaller than him. Remus’s head reach barely above Roman’s hip

Something pinged off a shelf and struck him in the cheek that had already been cut. He hissed and backed away, lifting a hand to his face. In the same moment, a blade sank into the back of Roman’s knee, scraping against bone. 

He grit his teeth and let out a growl, transferring his weight to his other leg and whipping his hand behind him to grab the goblin. He felt leathery skin slip between his fingers as Remus began to retreat again, but Roman secured his hand around one of the goblin’s floppy ears. 

“Ow! Hey!” he cried. 

Roman tugged him back, feeling the blade tear into the flesh of his hand. Remus attacked again and again, but Roman didn’t let go. Blood from his knee soaked into his pants and pain radiated up his entire leg as he dropped to his knees. The knife skimmed over his knuckles and Roman struck, feeling where the knife was since he couldn’t see it. 

He over shot and his hand closed around the upper half of the handle and a bit of the blade, but his grip was firm. 

A beam of morning light cast across their faces. Roman yanked the knife from Remus’s grasp and when he saw the fear twist across the goblin’s face, something clicked inside him. He felt focused and powerful and not at all the frightened boy who couldn’t save his friends. The pain fueled him, reminding him he was alive, pounding through him like a pulse. 

He discarded the knife and lunged.

* * *

Virgil peeked out into the kitchen from the top of the stairs, tail swishing. Had Dorian left for the night? Virgil was pretty sure he’d heard the back door open and close not long after Roman had left his room. It made sense, anyway. 

Still, Virgil had taken his feline form in case a speedy escape became necessary. 

The kitchen was empty. 

It hadn’t been that long since Logan and Patton had disappeared, he realized sadly. Their dishes were still in the sink.

The clock read six-thirty in the morning, and the house was completely still… aside from the sounds of scuffling coming from the cellar. 

Virgil padded down the stairs in a fluid motion, making no noise, keeping his ears trained for any sign of the demon. His talisman swung gently from the yarn around his neck. Looking the kitchen over once more as he made his way toward the hall, Virgil’s stomach dropped. 

A knife was missing from the knife block. 

Roman’s room had been empty when Virgil had checked on his way down, so that could only mean… 

Heart pounding, Virgil continued toward the cellar door. It hung an inch or two ajar, and pawing at it, he squeezed through. It was dark, but had never deterred him or his feline eyes. He took in the gray, colorless outline of the basement, immediately noticing the two figures near the back. One was smaller, clearly Remus, and the other must be Roman. They weren’t moving, the larger one slumped back against a shelf, twitching.

It was the smell of blood that stopped him in his tracks. Human blood. 

Fear coursed through Virgil, and he shot down the stairs so fast he nearly fell. 

_Roman!?_

If he wasn’t so concerned, Virgil would have been surprised to feel a flicker of Roman’s questioning thoughts pass through his own mind. 

He rushed to Roman’s side, stepping through blood that had smeared across the floor. Remus stood across from him, carving his name into the cement with the tip of a bloody kitchen knife. 

Roman had one leg extended, but not flat against the floor. The underside of his jeans were soaked with half-dried blood and his knee was trembling. He cradled his left hand against his chest, several bloody gashes crisscrossing it—Virgil was pretty sure he could see bone. The worst of it were the several wide bite marks marring his right arm, the uniform puncture marks of a goblin’s teeth. 

The wound oozed black, syrupy liquid, and rage coursed through Virgil. His talisman grew hot against his fur. Goblin venom wasn’t lethal, but enough of it could have a troll on the ground writhing in pain for an hour. 

“Oh, hey, Virge,” Roman sighed, his weary smile stretching the cut across his cheek. His right arm twitched and a grimace flinched across his face. “Did we wake you?”

Remus tossed the knife aside with a clatter. “Alright, before you freak out, let me explain—”

Virgil rounded on the goblin, intending to shifting to his human form, but his anger tainted the magic. He kept growing. Instead of disappearing, his fangs grew. His fur bristled, growing wiry and tough. His spine brushed the beams of the unfinished ceiling. Magic leaked out of him, spreading across the floor in pulsing violet tendrils. 

** _“What did you do?”_ **

Remus paled, falling to the ground. “Witch Queen’s tits, Virgil,” he breathed. 

Virgil pinned him to the floor with an enormous paw, claws as long as Remus’s entire arm. **_“Tell me!”_**

“Okay! _Okay!” _Remus shrieked, flinching away from him. “Your masochistic boyfriend gave me a knife and told me to attack him! That’s all! It was his idea!”

**_“You used your venom on purpose, didn’t you,” _**Virgil snarled, his growl inhumanly low. He could feel Remus’s tiny ribcage fluttering in panic beneath his foot. 

“It was a reflex! He was going to kill me!”

Virgil blinked, trying to see through the haze of his anger and process what Remus was saying. 

“B—besides,” the goblin continued, pointing at Roman, “he’s got the amulet on. He could heal himself whenever.” 

Roman gave a wheezy chuckle. “He’s telling the truth, Virge. It’s not his fault.” 

With his adrenaline waning, Virgil felt himself shrink, shifting to his human form at last. He knelt in front of Roman, reaching out but hesitating. It looked like anywhere he touched would cause his friend pain. 

“Roman…” he whispered, voice thick. “Where’s the amulet?”

The bloodied witch looked away, chewing the inside of his cheek. 

Virgil paled. “Please tell me you wore it.” 

Roman nodded. 

“Why didn’t you take it off yourself? How long have you been sitting here like this?”

He still said nothing, and a pit widened in Virgil’s gut. He wasn’t cut out for this. He couldn’t even deal with his own issues, so what help could he offer? 

“Can I?” Virgil asked, reaching toward him tentatively. 

He nodded again, fat tears rolling down his messy cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

Virgil’s heart shattered. “Oh, Roman. Don’t say that,” he said, tears blurring his own eyes as he reached around Roman’s neck for the amulet.

He removed the amulet and set it to the side. Roman groaned, shuddering and pitching forward to rest his head against Virgil’s chest. Virgil cradled him softly as the magic did its painful work. 

“I’m a horrible person,” he gasped between convulsions. 

“No, you’re not,” Virgil said, running his fingers through Roman’s hair. 

Roman held a fistful of Virgil’s shirt. “There’s something wrong with me. I can’t sleep. I barely eat. Every night I want to fight something and I…” his voice broke, “I don’t know what to do anymore.” 

Virgil bit his lip, cursing his lack of useful skills. Patton would have done a much better job. “I wish I knew what to tell you, Ro,” he muttered, hunching over his friend and pressing his lips to his hair. 

The amulet’s effect eventually dulled, leaving Roman covered in dried blood but whole once more. Virgil glanced around, but Remus was nowhere to be seen. The kitchen knife was gone as well. Virgil doubted he'd left the cellar, since he really didn't have anywhere else to go. 

Roman hadn’t moved from where he leaned against Virgil’s chest, his breathing slow and distant. Virgil put his hands on Roman's shoulders and pushed him away gently. His friend's eyes were bloodshot and empty, staring at nothing. 

"Roman? You with me?"

He hummed acknowledgement, blinking slowly. 

"Do you want to go back upstairs? Can you stand up?" Virgil asked, standing and holding out a hand. Roman took it, rising to his feet but gripping Virgil's shoulder for support. They made their way up the stairs and Virgil wished he were as strong as Logan. He could have just carried him. 

“What happened?” a silky voice inquired as they emerged, and Virgil’s heart skipped a beat. Dorian stood in the living room, looking just as he had last night. 

“I’m fine, Dorian,” Roman muttered, taking a breath and pulling away from Virgil. He made his way over to the sink, and Virgil followed, watching the demon carefully. Roman turned the faucet on, the water turning pink as it flowed over his hands and arms. 

“You didn’t kill the goblin, did you?” he asked, the briefest look of concern flashing across his face. 

“Remus is fine,” Virgil said, glaring. 

“Wonderful. I’ll retrieve him while you clean up, and then we’ll be on our way, yes?”

Roman paused, face dripping. “Where are we going?”

Dorian smiled. “The Witchlands, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [insert "this is fine" meme]


	29. to love and fear and both at once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman, Virgil, and the gang go on an adventure~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mild panic, internalized homophobia
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from The Spanish Tragedy by Thomas Kyd (III.x.93)

“So, where _are_ the Witchlands?” Roman asked as the four of them walked down the street. Dorian and Remus walked in front, Roman and Virgil following behind. Remus, by request, stayed invisible to the non-magical people around them, but those they passed stared at Dorian. Sure, it meant people didn’t instead question why Roman was walking around with worn leather armor and a sword strapped at his hip, but Virgil couldn’t shake the fear of attention curdling in his gut. 

He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, hood up to ward off the morning chill. “It isn’t really a matter of _where_ they are. You can’t get to them just by walking; you have to open a portal,” he explained, watching Dorian’s back. “That way, random humans don’t accidentally wander into… what’s wrong?” he asked, finding Roman staring at him. His mind flashed back to this morning. Roman had returned to his normal quippy self after only a few minutes, but Virgil had his doubts. He was a talented actor, after all. 

“You’re really pretty,” Roman said. 

Virgil started, not expecting that at all, but felt a smile creep up his face. “What?”

Roman looked like he’d swallowed a bug and slapped a hand over his mouth. “I did _not _mean to say that out loud,” he blurted. “I’m such an idiot. Sorry.” 

“No, it wasn’t—well, uh, I think you’re pretty too?” Virgil said, surprised by the statement. Remus made a gagging sound ahead of them and Virgil shot him a dirty look. Dorian didn’t look back, but quickened his pace, dragging Remus ahead a respectful distance away. Roman didn’t seem to notice, but Virgil felt the slightest twinge of amiability toward the demon. He shoved it to the back of his mind.

“You… do?” Roman said, fidgeting with the seam of his shirt as they made their way down the street. “You’re not upset?”

“Why would I be upset? You just complimented me,” he laughed. Virgil wasn’t entirely sure where this sudden confidence was coming from. Perhaps it had something to do with him using his full powers again, or how he’d protected Roman earlier this morning. Either way, he was going to ride this wave as long as he could. 

Roman looked down at the ground. “It’s weird, though.”

Virgil’s brow knit in confusion. “I don’t think it’s weird.”

Now Roman looked at him, stupefied. “We went to the same highschool, right?” he laughed. “You don’t remember Robbie Bishop? Or Angela Hampton?”

A drop of trepidation entered Virgil’s mind. Back then, he’d still been Ursula’s spy. He hadn’t concerned himself with anyone but Roman… until he introduced him to Logan and Patton, that is. Their classes had been meaningless to him, and any time that wasn’t spent with the Witch Queen’s heir was spent with Ursula.

“No. Sorry,” he said. “Being several centuries old doesn’t exactly make for a good memory.”

“Right,” Roman said, smiling. “That makes sense. Don’t worry about it.” 

Virgil wanted to keep pressing the issue, but Dorian turned off the sidewalk and into the familiar yellow field separating Wakeby from the forest, and Roman took it as an opportunity to cut off the strange conversation. 

“Come on,” he said, jogging to catch up with Dorian.

Virgil hung back just a bit, apprehension filling his gut like bile. He hadn’t told Roman—or any of them, for that matter—that he wouldn’t be able to follow them through the portal and into the Witchlands. Ursula’s banishment would make sure of that. As her familiar, the stipulations extended to him. Both times he’d been back to his homeland, Ursula had to make him a special charm that could circumvent the magic. 

Still, no use telling Roman that. He’d insist on finding another way, but Virgil knew better. Roman needed someone to train him, and they were running out of options. Roman had three months to fulfill his contract with Dorian, and he couldn’t cast a simple offensive spell without nearly killing himself or leveling a forest in the process. 

This was for the best.

* * *

Roman pushed the thoughts of highschool from his mind, following Dorian into the shade of the trees. The memory of the first time he’d seen Dorian’s human form flitted through his mind. It had been the middle of the night and pouring rain… and not that long ago. 

So much had happened in just under a week; Roman's entire world had changed. Not to mention he felt like a cocktail of a thousand emotions someone had shaken for a minute straight. He was embarrassed about what he’d said to Virgil, self-conscious from the memories of high school homophobes, numb from everything that had happened this morning, and just plain excited to visit the Witchlands and learn more about magic. It was almost too much. 

_Focus on the excitement, _he told himself, gripping the hold of his sheathed sword tightly to keep his hand from trembling. _I’ll feel everything else later, _he resolved, knowing full well that later would never come if he had anything to say about it. 

The tree line loomed closer, practically gloating about his return. It was as if he’d gone off a high dive, accelerating toward the water and yet taking an eternity. 

Roman didn’t stop. He didn’t waver as he stepped across the threshold, but he stubbornly held his breath to keep the others from hearing the panic seizing in his chest. He didn’t even feel anything, unlike he had every night the past year, and yet somehow this was worse. 

“So what’s the plan after we get there?” Roman asked Dorian, masking his first intake of breath since entering the forest as a casual yawn. 

The demon glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Well… that’s something I'd hoped to discuss with Virgil.” Dorian slowed to a stop and turned around. Virgil also halted, glancing between Roman and Dorian with a general look of nervousness. 

“What? Why?”

“You knew Amaryllis after she’d escaped the Witch Queen’s dungeon, yes? You know more of her place of residence than I do,” Dorian said. “Where should I open the portal?”

Virgil shook his head. “She’s long dead, remember? It’s not like we’re going to find her sitting by the fire, knitting a scarf.” 

“No,” Dorian said slowly, “but she may be buried somewhere nearby. Perhaps a death grove in the area?”

Virgil shifted uncomfortably. “She’s not buried in a grove. Why not find some witch who’s still alive? It’ll be much easier for you guys that way.”

Dorian cocked an eyebrow. “With your magic, her state of being shouldn’t pose a problem, familiar. You know where she is laid to rest, then, if not a death grove?”

“Didn’t Ursula kill her?” Remus interjected, glancing at Virgil as he swung his arms side to side in boredom. “I’m pretty sure I remember that happening. Weren’t you there?”

Virgil bristled. “You guys really would be better off with someone still alive.” 

“This is taking too long. Roman must begin his training as soon as possible. If you are unwilling to aide us, so be it, familiar,” Dorian sighed, turning away from the group and raising his hands. Roman felt that same tingling sensation he felt whenever Virgil used his talisman, not entirely distracting him from the conflict with Virgil, but enough to shut him up for a solid moment. Dorian’s eye glowed. The air rumbled and Roman’s ears popped. The demon inhaled sharply. 

The forest… split. Kind of. More like Dorian unzipped the fabric of space and Wakeby’s forest bent around it. The portal was arched, like an old-timey key hole. Through it was… another forest that honestly didn’t look that different. The bark was a bit darker, and the foliage was green, unlike Wakeby’s early-winter shrubbery. 

In fact… now that he looked at his own forest, he noticed something odd. The trees had warped to accommodate the new archway that had appeared, but if Roman moved a little to the right, he found the trees themselves untouched. It was a distortion of light itself. Roman remembered one of his high school teachers explaining how black holes did something similar. Thankfully, this portal had significantly less existential terror associated with it.

At least… for Roman. Virgil, on the other hand, looked like he might bolt at any second. 

_You guys really would be better off with someone alive. _

Roman turned from the portal, looking Virgil over carefully. “Virge, why did you say _you guys?”_

“What?” He looked like an animal caught in a trap. 

“You told us we needed someone alive, but you excluded yourself from the group. You’re coming with us, right?” Roman stepped toward him and he shifted back a step. 

Remus leaped gleefully through the portal, tromping around in the grass. “Oooh, now that I’m back, it’s _over _for you pixies!” he shouted into the trees. Dorian shot him a look and his elated grin withered a bit. “Ah, in a very kind, nonviolent way,” he amended. Dorian snorted and stepped through the portal as well. 

Roman could see the panic in Virgil’s eyes. He obviously didn’t like the idea of traveling with Dorian, let alone returning to his home—where whatever had happened between him and Dorian took place. That creeping sense of helplessness tricked down the back of Roman’s throat. He was losing him, just like he’d lost Patton and Logan. He could feel it, Virgil slipping through his fingers. 

“Ro—”

“Virgil, please don't leave me,” Roman pleaded suddenly, desperately. Virgil’s face became miserable, and he gripped the edges of his hood with trembling hands. Roman reached out and took his hands, loosely enough that Virgil could pull away if he wished. He didn’t. 

Roman’s voice was barely more than a trembling whisper. “Please, don’t leave me alone, not after Pat and—and Logan, I can’t do it again. I know you’re scared, and believe me I’m terrified too, but you have to _trust me _on this, Virge. We can do this.” Roman started backing toward the portal, gently pulling Virgil along. 

Virgil followed reluctantly, his feet shuffling, eyes full of tears. “You don’t understand…”

“It’s okay,” Roman said, putting on a smile. “Everything will be okay, Virge, as long as we’re together, right?” 

Virgil shook his head, his eyes darting to the portal. They were almost there. “It won’t work, Roman, you don’t—”

“Hey, look at me.”

Virgil locked his inhumanly beautiful amber eyes on his, and Roman decided in that very moment that they didn’t remind him of Dorian or Ursula’s magic in the slightest. They were far too warm and loving for that. 

“Do you trust me?” 

“What?”

Roman smiled. Genuinely. He even let out a snort of a laugh, and repeated, “Do you trust me?”

Virgil settled somewhat. “Yes.”

Roman released his hands. “Good, because we’re already through.”

Virgil’s eyes widened, and he whirled around. “We’re _what?!”_

“Finally. Took you two long enough,” Dorian sighed, lifting a hand and closing the portal behind them. “Since Virgil wasn’t of much help in providing a starting location, I transported us just east of the capital. We’re far enough into the forest we should have arrived unnoticed,” he said, glancing around. Remus placed his hands on his hips and took a long inhale. 

“Smells like home.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> virgil's going through some ch-ch-ch-changes


	30. the afterburn of childhood wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patton gets his first lesson in astral projection, and Virgil must deal with a suspicious Ursula.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mild panic, memories of past abuse, pain, verbal abuse
> 
> The title of this chapter comes from "Often I Pray" by Michael Sowder.

Daveigh didn’t waste any time the next morning, practically shaking Patton awake at the first signs of light on the horizon—much to Patton’s displeasure. 

“What is it?” he asked, sitting up, immediately awake and concerned. 

“I know it’s early, but I couldn’t wait,” Daveigh said, unable to hide her unabashed grin as she rummaged around in the dark. Patton heard the rustle of stiff fabric as Daveigh retied her skirt around her waist, and out of pure instinct, Patton fixed his gaze on the doorway. It seemed everyone on the island had little sense of a need for privacy. Daveigh and Mikhail wore simple skirts made of a durable, off-white fabric—Daveigh wearing a wrapping of similar material around her chest, but nothing more. It wasn’t that Patton thought they were being unseemly, it was just… a bit of an adjustment for him when Daveigh had announced it was time for bed, discarded her skirt, and walked casually across the hut to her woven mat, plopping down and promptly falling asleep. 

It shouldn’t have surprised him. Living on a deserted island for as long has they probably had, privacy was likely a luxury they’d learned to live without. He’d just have to learn as well, it seemed. He still wore the clothing he’d shown up in—jeans, a t-shirt reading “_famILY"_ across the front, and his favorite cardigan. The fabric was worn from the harsh salt water and was incredibly dirty, but he couldn’t bring himself to discard them. Not yet. 

Patton looked over at Logan, sleeping on his side, curled tightly in on himself. He looked uncomfortable, and perhaps a bit cold. He certainly wasn’t as used to sleeping on the ground as Patton was. He still wore his old clothes as well, jeans and a the deep blue polo shirt he usually wore to work. His glasses were gone—which Patton was still getting used to. He didn’t mind, of course... but he’d liked Logan’s glasses. They framed his face in such a nice way… 

“Come on,” Daveigh said, dressed and stepping out into the cool morning. “You want to learn how to astral project, don’t you?”

Patton joined her, pulling his cardigan sleeves down over his hands and bunching the fraying fabric in his fists. “Lead the way.”

* * *

The sun didn’t take long to rise and warm Patton’s back comfortingly. Daveigh had taken him to a section of the beach far from Eudora’s cave and with much softer sand. They sat across from each other, Patton fidgeting his fingers through the sand at his feet. 

“Okay, first of all: this event in the past you projected into. You knew someone there? Personally?”

“Yeah, his name is Virgil.”

“And you’re in love with him, yes?”

Patton choked. “I—what? Why would—I mean…”

“_I’m _in love with Amaryllis, so there’s a chance your powers could have picked up on that, but then why that event?” she said casually, as if she were solving a math problem and not ousting Patton’s deepest feelings. “If it had only been my influence, you likely would have seen something from our time together—but you saw Virgil. Am I right?”

Patton flushed so hard he was surprised he didn’t start giving off steam. “Yes.” 

Daveigh clapped her hands together, “Great, that solves that mystery for us. Oracles can do more than just witness the future, like sibyls do. We have a connection to time and space itself. When we form emotional connections with people, especially strong ones, our powers react to that and can become directionalized if you aren’t paying enough attention to what you’re doing,” she explained. 

Patton’s brow knit. “What?” 

“Your abilities are directly affected by your emotions, and therefore your connection to others. Have you ever had a dream about someone you didn’t know?”

Patton thought back. The only dreams he’d had that weren’t about himself were Merri and Roman—not counting the time-travel escapade last night, of course. “No, I don’t think so.”

“That’s because you don’t know how to control them,” she explained, lifting a finger. “Our powers are designed as self-preservation tools. Whenever an emotionally charged event in the future looms closer, your powers kick in to warn you about it—but they only pertain to yourself or those you care about because, according to your powers, anything else happening in the world doesn’t matter. You have to learn to broaden your perspective.”

“And that will help me stop the dreams?” Patton asked. 

Daveigh hesitated. “Stop them? Why would you want to stop them?”

“I mean, not _right now,_ but… eventually, yeah.” Patton wrapped his arms around his knees, the morning sunlight making the left half of his face prickle with warmth. “I don’t _like_ seeing the horrible things that are going to happen to my friends,” he whispered. He glanced over at her. “Do you?”

Daveigh looked absolutely heartbroken. She turned away from him, facing the ocean. “When I opened your mind the first day I met you,” she began, voice soft with shame, “I’d never seen so many mental barriers in my life. I didn’t _see _anything—that isn’t how our powers work—but watching what reliving those memories did to you…” 

Patton tensed. He remembered the feeling of liquid fire coursing through him, every wall he’d ever constructed torn asunder. Memories let loose to wreak havoc as they pleased. He shivered. “That wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know.”

“It _was_ my fault, Patton. I should have asked, and I know I’ve apologized about a hundred times already, but I’ll do it again. Excitement isn’t an excuse.”

Patton swallowed. “Thank you.”

Daveigh took a breath. “Your powers will always be a part of you, Patton. Repressing them will only make them more unruly and unpredictable, but… you’ve really never had a happy prediction before?”

“Not that I can remember,” he admitted. 

Daveigh ran a hand across her smooth scalp. “I wish my mentor were here. She’d know how to help you without hurting you so much.” 

Patton shifted, unfurling himself from his semi-fetal position. His powers weren’t going away. The sooner he could accept that and learn to control them, the sooner he’d be able to help his friends. “I want your help, Daveigh. I don’t care if it hurts.”

“But—”

“I’m going to help save my friends. All of them. I can’t do that as I am right now,” he said, his resolve building as he spoke, slowly but surely. “I’ve lived with pain before. I will gladly do it for the people I love.” 

Daveigh smiled at him. “Okay, but you have to promise to let me know when you need a break, okay? We don’t want another panic attack.”

“Right,” Patton said, smiling back. 

“Okay, first we’re going to just have you astral project out of your body, right here on the beach. Sit with you legs crossed,” she instructed, “and place your hands—yes, like that. Okay, now close your eyes and concentrate.”

“On what?” Patton asked, feeling slightly foolish sitting there with his eyes closed. 

“You can start with your breathing. Feel your environment around you. Eventually, you’ll feel yourself disconnect from your body.” 

Patton opened his eyes. “What?”

Daveigh raised a placating hand. “It’s okay. You’ll be perfectly safe. I promise.” 

Patton chewed the inside of his cheek skeptically as he closed his eyes again. “So basically you want me to force myself to dissociate?” 

“No. The opposite, actually.” Daveigh said. “Focus on your breathing, and I’ll explain.” 

Patton nodded. 

“Dissociation is a result of panic and anxiety. It forces the self to retreat deep inside the mind to escape what is happening around it. Astral projection is sending the self outside the mind to perceive things that the body cannot. The two are mutually exclusive. If you begin to feel too much fear while projecting, your body will drag you back in an effort to protect you. In extreme cases, you can rebound in the opposite direction and end up dissociated.” 

_This is going to be harder than I thought__, then,_Patton thought, dutifully focusing on his breathing. Daveigh stopped talking, but he could still hear her breathing softly beside him. 

Patton wasn’t sure exactly how long he’d been sitting there when suddenly, something shifted. Sounds became clearer and more precise. Instead of just waves washing up and down the beach, he heard the rustle of sand against the push and pull, the trickle of every droplet as waves crested and tumbled over themselves; the wind as it brushed across the beach, picking up an entourage of minuscule particles, parading after it joyously. The sun warming him. Vibrating through him. 

Patton felt himself tip forward, as if falling asleep, and he jerked up, blinking in the light. 

Daveigh looked over at him, smiling. “Well done.”

“What?” Patton looked down and saw himself sitting where he had a moment ago, but his body was slumped forward, completely limp. He was overlapping his own body in a strange, almost terrifying way. Patton bit down on the fear, remembering Daveigh’s warning. Slowly, he stood and stepped away from his body. Daveigh repositioned it—him?—so that his body lay on its back on the beach. It was odd, still feeling the sun on his face, the warm sand beneath his back, while standing a few paces away

Looking down at his current state, Patton found himself similar to how he’d appeared with Amaryllis. Shimmering. Angel-like. A little transparent, but not enough that he felt like a ghost. 

“I did it!” he breathed, feeling his own voice vibrate through his new astral body like he stood inside an enormous church bell. “Whoa, that’s weird. Helloooo?” he said, testing it out. Daveigh watched him gleefully. “This didn’t happen last time,” he noted.

Daveigh nodded. “You weren’t in control last time, and your mind did its best to keep you feeling safe.” 

Patton started. He could hear her twice, from both his own ears and those of his body. He shook his head and Daveigh laughed. That, too, freaked his brain out. “We never completely detach from our bodies, no matter how far we go. You’ll always be able to hear, feel, and smell if you concentrate hard enough.” 

Patton held a hand out, studying it. He could still touch his own skin, though it felt smoother; he didn’t pass through his palm like he was made of mist, but looking down, he found he wasn’t making an imprint in the sand beneath his feet. 

“Can I touch you when I’m like this?” he asked, reaching out tentatively. Daveigh obliged and swiped her hand right through his arm. 

“Unfortunately, no. There are very few things we can interact with while in the astral plane,” she said, standing.

But her body remained where it was, sitting calmly on the sand. 

Patton smirked. “How come you get to sit all nicely while I look like someone hit me over the head?” 

Daveigh winked. “Core muscles.”

“Really?”

She laughed. “No. When you’ve done this for a while, you’ll be able to astral project and control your physical body at the same time. See?” she said, and Patton jumped when Daveigh’s body turned, opened its eyes, and waved at him before returning to its meditative seat. 

“That’s kinda creepy,” he chuckled, looking at his own body warily, waiting for it to spring up and do something ridiculous. “So, it’s like you’re in two places at once?”

Daveigh shook her head, gesturing for him to follow her down the beach, away from their bodies. Patton followed, smothering his nerves in his trust of her. 

“It’s more like aiming a crossbow with both eyes open,” she said. Patton gave her a confused look. “No? Let’s see… it’s like reading while you walk. You aren’t putting all of your focus on where you’re going, but just enough not to run into anything. Does that make sense? Typically, you can’t speak or make too complex of facial expressions without really concentrating, but I could get up and do simple tasks while my astral self was elsewhere. That’s a little advanced, though. Let’s just start with putting some distance between you and your body.”

They strode down the beach calmly, Patton simply trying to get used to the sensation of it all. He could feel the ground beneath his feet, but he didn’t sink into the sand or leave footprints. He saw a breeze pulling on the palm trees, and could feel it faintly across his body behind him, but his astral form didn’t react to it, his hair lying still. 

Curious, he wandered over to the water and let the tide rush over his feet and ankles. The water went right through him, undisturbed. He did feel the temperature difference though, his feet going cold, but remaining dry. Daveigh stepped up next to him. 

“We don’t need to breathe in this form,” she said. “We don’t float, either.” 

Patton stopped, realizing that he was, in fact, not breathing. He could feel his _body_ breathing of course, but his shimmering, translucent chest didn’t rise or fall with breath. He started. “You mean we could walk underwater?”

She nodded, smiling. “It's quite the experience. Maybe another time. I think it might prove a little too overwhelming for you to handle on your first time. It can be quite disconcerting.” 

“My feet are cold,” he mentioned, wiggling his incorporeal toes. 

“We can feel temperature, to an extent,” she said, continuing down the beach. 

He followed. “What do you mean?” 

“Well, we can’t be injured, we don’t have physical bodies right now, but that doesn’t mean extreme heat or cold wouldn’t be painful,” she explained. 

Patton opened his mouth to ask another question, but something flickered in his periphery and he stopped, turning. Daveigh slowed to a stop ahead of him, watchful but unsurprised. 

“What was—” Patton started, when something else flashed just out of his field of view and he whirled again. 

“Remember what I said about the difference between projection and dissociation?” 

“Yeah, but I don’t—”

_“Patton,” _Merri whispered so close to his ear he could practically feel her breath. Patton yelped and stumbled back a few steps, but nothing was there. Just him and Daveigh standing on the beach. 

Daveigh watched him carefully. “I said that astral projection makes the self aware of things that the body is not, that includes being aware of your own mindscape.” 

Patton’s breath came quicker now. He felt like he was being watched on all sides. “You mean my memories,” he said.“They’re all here?”

“To an extent,” she said. “You will not relive them as vividly as you would a flashback, but fleeting glimpses of them will appear. Smells, sounds, people, objects. _They aren’t real, _Patton,” she admonished. “You must remember that.” 

“Yeah,” he breathed, unable to keep from glancing around the beach. Patton lifted a hand to the ear he’d heard Merri in. He could have sworn she was right there. More images tugged on his attention from the corner of his eye, and it took a significant effort not to turn and look. Daveigh put a hand on his shoulder, and he relished the solid contact. 

“Patton-cake, are you ready to go?” Dot called from only a little ways away, her voice several years younger than he’d last heard her. Patton felt his eyes misting and took a shaking breath. He could hear her closing a sandwich baggie and folding down the top of the brown paper sack his lunches were always in for school. Now, it seemed, it wasn’t only the bad memories that would be hard for him to handle. 

“Is it… will it always be like this?” he asked, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“You’ll never completely get rid of them, but you can muffle them. It takes a lot of training, though,” she said. “There are many factors at play. How far you are from your body, how emotional you are, what emotions you’re feeling exactly, how concentrated you are. Your mental state affects how you experience the astral plane.” 

Patton stiffened as his own broken screams pierced the air from behind him, but before he could even think about turning around, he flew away from Daveigh, like someone had yanked him backward on a leash. The world went black for a split second and Patton gasped, sitting up in his body once more. 

He felt heavy, like he’d donned a lead-filled track suit. Patton had only projected for a couple of minutes, but feeling his lungs expanding in his chest, the blood pumping through his entire body… it all felt brand new and a bit foreign. 

His screams were seared into his mind. 

Patton felt nauseous and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. 

Daveigh rubbed his back gently. “The feeling will pass after a few moments.” 

He stiffened. “Can you not touch me right now, please?” he breathed, fighting for calm. She retracted her hand immediately. 

“Of course. I should have asked. Forgive me.”

“It’s fine, just… give me a minute.” 

Daveigh sat silently next to him while he collected himself, carefully organizing his mind back to where it had been. He realized he couldn’t live like this forever, not dealing with his past. Of course, he knew. But not right now. Not on an island in the middle of nowhere, not knowing if Roman or Virgil were still alive. That would have to wait.

* * *

Virgil stared in disbelief at the cluster of trees where the portal to Wakeby had once been. Behind him, Dorian corralled Remus from accosting a tree nymph with that strange expression that could have been fondness but surely wasn’t because immortal snake-demons weren’t _fond_ of anything, and Roman watched in slack-jawed amazement as a swarm of multicolored pixies passed by overhead. 

“This place is amazing!” Roman said. “Hey, Dorian, is it always this warm?”

“Yes,” the demon replied. “Though there is a rainy season that lasts about a month.” 

“I don’t understand,” Virgil breathed. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

Roman approached from behind. “Virgil, what’s wro—”

Pain erupted behind Virgil’s eyes and he gasped, swaying. His ears rang and his head swam. Virgil knew that pain. Ursula was trying to enter his mind. No doubt she could sense that he’d returned to their homeland. Through watering eyes, Virgil saw Roman about to reach out and steady him. 

“No!” he cried, scrambling away from Roman, careful to keep Ursula from hearing his words. he fell back to a seat on the ground, backing up against a tree. “Don’t touch me. She’ll know.”

“What?”

“It’s Ursula,” he managed, forcing controlled breaths in through his nose and out through clenched teeth She was breaking through. “She’ll sense your powers if—if you touch—”

_You are getting harder and harder to contact, __kitty,_she tutted inside his mind. _Care to explain—_

“Virgil, let me help—”

—_what you’re doing in the Witchlands? I don’t—_

“—what do you need me to do?”

—_remember giving you permission to abandon the prince. _

“Shut up! Just stop talking!” Virgil cried, clutching his head. He couldn’t focus on both of them at once, especially when they were talking over one another. Roman shut his mouth immediately, stepping back. Dorian watched curiously from afar, then leaned over and muttered something in Roman’s ear. 

_How dare you speak to me like that, _Ursula snapped, her presence pressing down even harder. Still it wasn’t the worst Virgil had experienced from her. It didn’t make sense for her to be holding back, and she’d said it was getting harder for her to reach him… it was probably just the Witchlands itself. Ursula being banished must be affecting their connection. 

_If you’ve brought the prince there to cultivate his powers, there won’t be a single corner on in the universe where you can hide from me, _she hissed. Virgil could feel her attempting to see through his eyes. He panicked. If she saw Roman—if she knew Dorian was working with them… it would all be over. _You’ll wish I killed you, you worthless—_

_I ran away! _Virgil thought back frantically. 

The throbbing lessened somewhat. _What?_

Virgil stopped bridling his fear, letting it wash through him, making sure Ursula could sense it. _They didn’t want me anymore, so I ran away. I figured coming here, I’d be less of a burden to you. _

_How’d you_ _ get inside? _

_I kept the charm. _

_All these years? _Ursula snorted. _You always were a coward. I should have known. _

He saw Roman begin to argue under his breath with Dorian, gesturing at Virgil. He probably wanted the demon to aide him in dealing with the dragon witch. Thankfully, Dorian understood what was going on far better than Roman did, and Virgil didn’t have to convince him not to. He shook his head, staring at Virgil, and for once Virgil didn’t feel pinned to the floor by it. It was almost comforting, knowing that someone that powerful was on his side. 

_Fine, if you’re too much of a child to do your job, stay in the Witchlands. Less of a chance you’ll get in my way,_ she sighed. _How’s the curse holding up? Our prince is still in one piece?_

_Yes, he’s fine__, last__ I saw, _Virgil reported, replacing the fear with defeat, hopefully feeding into Ursula’s sense of still having control. 

_You know, _she said carefully, _I remember the prince mentioning a promise he had with Bloodwyrm to kill me in exchange for his freedom last we met. Any idea what that’s about?_

Virgil’s mind raced. She was testing him—prodding at his story to see if it held together under pressure. It was unlikely that he wouldn’t have known about it, but he couldn’t let her get too suspicious. _There was a contract Roman convinced the demon to enter__ into__, but it expired when you defeated him. The curse is still intact. _

_Very well,_ she conceded, and it took an immense effort just to keep relief from flooding his mind. _Enjoy your __little vacation__, coward. However, if Bloodwyrm disposes of my prince sooner than later, I’ll expect you back here. I’m going to need something to keep him occupied. _

Dread trickled down Virgil’s throat at the thought. _Of course. _

And with that, the dragon witch withdrew. 


	31. running in every direction devoted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan learns more of life on the island and pays Killian and Eudora a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: arguing/yelling, mild violence, blood
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from "The Pardoning Hour" by Khaty Xiong

Logan woke softly, his eyes fluttering open. He was curled in on himself, facing the wall. He stretched, an enormous yawn taking him over for several seconds. Coming out of it, he shook his head, blinking away the sleep. The dull, full-body ache that had appeared after his first night sleeping on a floor of branches tied together with vines and insulated with clay still hadn’t disappeared. Logan wondered if it would ever lessen, or if he’d simply get used to it. Looking to his right, he found himself alone in the hut, Daveigh’s woven sleeping mat empty on the opposite side.

_They’re probably out training, _he figured, getting to his feet and stepping out into camp. Mikhail sat amidst an enormous pile of stripped palm fronds and blank rolls of barkpaper. His long brown hair was tied up into a bun with some twine.

“Good morning,” Mikhail said, offering a small smile.

“What are you making?” Logan asked, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to regain the semblance of an orderly appearance. His worn—and frankly filthy—clothes certainly weren’t helping. He hadn’t showered in days and probably smelled horrid.

“Sleeping mats for you and Patton,” he said, grabbing a piece of barkpaper and twisting it until it came apart in a clump of soft fibers. “I weave two mats together and stuff them with this.”

Logan blinked, surprised by the thoughtfulness of it. “Thank you,” he said. “Did you make your clothes as well?”

Mikhail shook his head, rubbing more bark apart in his hands and stuffing it inside the green makeshift mattress. “Eudora’s a very skilled seamstress as well as healer.” He eyed Logan’s attire. “I’m sure she could make you something similar.”

Logan snorted, approaching the fire and taking a seat. “I doubt she’d be very eager to help me, but I appreciate the suggestion. How long have Patton and Daveigh been gone?”

“An hour or so,” Mikhail said, returning to his task. He jerked his head toward a flat stone a few paces away, laden with fruit. “You may have some if you want.”

“Thank you,” Logan said, grabbing a mango and returning to his seat. Mikhail leaned across his work and grabbed his knife, holding it out to him.

“For peeling it,” he said when Logan simply stared at him, confused.

“Right,” Logan said, flushing. He took the blade carefully, as if handling a loaded gun. It was a beautiful work of craftsmanship, with a smooth wooden handle fitted over an opaque, milky stone blade that Logan guessed was probably a variation of quartz with brown twine. The blade was one-sided, four or five inches long, with a serrated edge, most likely a result of the method of sharpening. A list of runes ran down the length of it. Logan recognized a few: a number four, an X, a few Greek letters. The rest were mysteries to him.

_You’re an adult. You should be able to peel a fruit without losing a finger,_ he thought stubbornly.

“Don’t cut toward yourself,” Mikhail said before Logan had even pierced the mango’s skin. Logan felt his ears grow hot with embarrassment as he changed his grip on the blade.

“Apologies. I don’t have much experience with… weapons.”

Mikhail put his work aside and got to his feet, brushing loose fibers from his skirt. Logan felt like a child again, bringing a broken toy to his father’s desk with tear-filled eyes. He held out the fruit and the knife to Mikhail as he approached, but the man simply squatted down next to him, pushing the objects back into his lap.

“I’ll teach you. Here, hold it like this, with your fingers against the bolster and your thumb across the top,” he instructed, guiding Logan’s hand farther up the handle until his index finger rested against the dull, curved part behind the edge of the blade. Placing his thumb across the dull backside of the knife, he found he had much more control of the knife and where it was going.

“Sit forward and hold it in front of you—yes, like that. You don’t want to cut your leg if it slips,” Mikhail said. “Now, start peeling. Don’t use too much pressure, the blade’s sharp enough to do most of the work for you. Keep the angle shallow. You want to preserve as much of the fruit as possible.”

It went slowly, and the mango was ending up far more mangled than Logan would have liked, Mikhail occasionally cautioning him to watch his fingers or use less pressure. Logan’s hands were sticky from handling the sections he’d already peeled, and he found himself wishing he’d washed his hands beforehand. Sugary juice dripped down his hands onto the ground below.

“Where do you get fresh water?” he asked, brow furrowed in concentration as he worked the knife around the bottom of the fruit.

“There’s a spring not too far up the mountain. I can show you later if you like. You can bathe there as well.”

Logan’s tongue stuck out a bit between his teeth as he worked. “Wouldn’t that contaminate your drinking water?”

Mikhail shook his head. “There are two pools, one flowing into the other. We drink from the top and wash in the bottom.”

“Smart,” Logan said, finishing the last of the skin and holding it up for inspection. It looked horrendous, smudged in the dirt from his hands and torn up like a cat had batted it around like a ball of yarn, but he couldn’t help feeling a small sense of pride over doing it all himself. Mikhail took the knife back and walked over to the lean-to where he kept all of his tools. He picked up a clay pitcher and poured out a stream of water over the knife, rinsing the juice away. “Come wash your breakfast off,” he said, nodding toward the mango in Logan’s hands. Logan brought it over and scrubbed it clean under the water.

“What are those symbols on the blade?” he asked.

“What? Oh, Killian did that for me a long time ago. Some sort of alchemy, I think. Makes the stone not as brittle and prone to shattering,” he said. “That man’s a genius. It’s a shame what Ursula did to him.”

“Yes, it is,” Logan said, sobering.

Mikhail set the pitcher down, sheathing the knife at his waist.

“You know,” Logan said, taking a bite of his mango as Mikhail replaced the pitcher on the ground, “I think this is the most I’ve heard you talk since we’ve arrived.”

Mikhail chuckled, wiping a finger over the wet stone blade. “I’m very passionate about tools like these,” he said, gesturing to the array of wood and stone appliances. “I tend to ramble on about them if given the opportunity.”

Logan felt a smile creep up his face. “I know the feeling.”

* * *

He watched Mikhail work on the mats while he finished his breakfast, then excused himself, making his way to the beach to see Killian. He’d been hoping to learn more from the arcanist. Hopefully something that could help them get off the island. However, neither Eudora nor Killian were out on the beach. Entering the cave, he found the firepit empty.

“Hello?” he called, but there was no reply. Rounding the corner a bit farther within, he found Killian’s room empty aside from three floating orbs of light near the ceiling, illuminating the space. Scrolls of barkpaper were stacked in the corners. One lay open on the floor, the corners weighted down with stones to keep from rolling up again. Something twanged from deeper inside the cave and Logan jumped, whirling.

He was still alone, the three orbs circling each other lazily above his head. _Opposing and attracting forces? Like magnets? _he wondered absently as the twanging continued. The pitch went up a few notches before settling on a steady note, as if someone were tuning an instrument. Torn two ways by curiosity, Logan took a quick glance at the open scroll on the ground, pleased to find numbers and mathematical symbols he recognized. Just like Mikhail’s knife. There were, of course, unknown variables and symbols, but for the most part, the text looked decipherable given time.

Several other notes began plucking out a soft tune, the stony tunnel walls distorting it into a hollow, almost haunted sound. Logan peeked out of Killian’s room and into the darkness of the cave. He’d never wandered past this point, as the light from the cave’s entrance ran out not much father ahead. Still, the lilting tune floated through the air, enticing him forward.

Ignoring his trepidation, Logan rushed back into Killian’s room looking for another folded sheet of barkpaper to create his own orb of light to bring with him. He couldn’t see any laying around, and didn’t want to dig through Killian’s stuff without permission.

Logan looked up at the orbs above his head. He could take one of those, right? It would only be a matter of _reaching_ one. Logan jumped, his fingers just barely brushing one. It bobbed away from him indifferently, its two siblings swaying out of rhythm for a moment before giving up and orbiting each other. After several more embarrassing attempts to capture the third lone orb, Logan stopped, panting and glaring up at it. If only Patton were here. He was tall enough he’d probably only have to rise up on his toes to reach it.

“Okay,” he breathed, readying for another jump. “_Come on!” _he grunted, lifting his arms above his head and aiming to cage the thing between his fingers.

He missed.

Straining, Logan twisted, extending one arm just a little farther. Before the little sun could float away, he clamped a fist around it and fell back to the ground. Logan stumbled to a stop, hissing in pain as it seared his fingers and flung it away from himself reflexively. The orb slowed to a stop a few feet away from him as if nothing had happened.

Logan muttered under his breath angrily, inspecting the burn on his hand. It wasn’t more than first degree, the skin red and stinging.

Thankfully, the strange music hadn’t stopped. Guiding the light alongside him with his uninjured hand, Logan began his descent into the deeper recesses of the cave.

It didn’t take long to locate the source with both light and sound to guide him. The cave sloped at a gentle downward angle, not too steep to make things difficult, but enough that Logan could tell he was going deeper. As he neared his destination, another sound pervaded the music. A rhythmic clacking, though it didn’t match up to the music very well. Curiosity spiking, Logan increased his pace.

Turning a bend, Logan found his light no longer necessary. A much stronger, undulating amber light shone down the earthen corridor from a cavern up ahead, the floor of the cave turning instead into rough-hewn stairs leading up into it and blocking his view of what lay inside. Pure excitement overpowered any sort of caution Logan probably should have had as he loped up the stairs, the tiny orb cradled in his hand.

Logan entered the cavern and nearly forgot to breathe.

Dozens—no, _hundreds _of tiny suns swirled above him, occupying the upper third of a cavern easily the size of a high school gymnasium. They didn’t simply orbit each other like the three back in Killian’s room had, rather they reminded him of those large flocks of starlings that occasionally flew over Wakeby, swirling in perfect time with each other and creating the illusion of one enormous, undulating organism. They made no sound as they swirled through the air, moving at a constant, steady pace.

Logan could have stood there for hours, just watching, but he eventually tore his eyes away to inspect the rest of the room. The source of the music turned out to be Killian, sitting on the ground and plucking at a foreign instrument—some kind of lute, with a neck that bent back at a sharp right angle at the top and a curved, teardrop-shaped body resting between Killian’s arm and thigh. It was about the size of a guitar. He looked up at Logan, smiling at his wonderstruck expression.

The clacking came from the enormous wooden, four-poster loom in the middle of the room, the rocky floor rising up as if presenting it on a stage. Eudora sat at its forefront, feet working long pedals, hands flying as she manipulated the threads and sent a small wooden object back and forth between the strings. The threads themselves were a plain off-white color, several spools the size of Logan’s head piled in the corner.

Killian stopped playing and waved him over, patting the ground next to him. Eudora hadn’t seemed to notice his arrival, machine rattling in a steady rhythm.

“How… I don’t—I have so many questions,” Logan breathed, nestling his own orb of light in his lap.

Killian pointed at it, cocking an eyebrow. Logan flushed. “Oh, I stole it from your room to find my way down here,” he said. “Sorry.”

Killian waved a dismissive hand and shook his head, returning his attention to his instrument. Now that he was closer, Logan counted ten strings in total running down the neck and over the beautifully carved sound-hole.

“That’s a beautiful instrument,” he said quietly, not wanting to distract him from his playing.

Killian smiled and hummed agreeably, calloused fingers flying up the neck of the instrument with remarkable dexterity as his other hand picked out a fast-paced tune on the strings. “Mmmm,” he began, fingers hesitating for a split second as his mind worked to form the word. _“Muhlte,” _he said, nodding toward the instrument.

_“Muhlte?” _Logan repeated, testing the word out. “That’s what it’s called?”

Killian nodded.

“How did you get one on the island?” Logan pressed, mind reeling. “Unless you made it here, but that would necessitate some very advanced tools, and where did you get the string? They look metal—though perhaps wound around a synthetic material? What if a string breaks? Humidity affects instruments to varying degrees, so it’s a miracle it’s in such good shape and…” Logan trailed off, realizing Killian had stopped playing and he’d been rambling. His ears flushed, and he glanced up at Killian, about to apologize, but was caught off guard by the man’s expression.

He didn’t look annoyed, as Logan had expected, but rather he looked… touched, almost—watching Logan with what he could only decipher as overwhelming gratitude.

Killian laughed, deep and from his chest, setting a hand on Logan’s shoulder. Eudora glanced over a them, but said nothing.

“Tha–thank you,” he said genuinely. Before Logan could wrack his mind for something to say, Killian clapped him on the back and lifted his instrument. “Dora hhh–had it wh–when wi–whi–wi…” he paused, taking a breath. 

“Witch?” Logan supplemented. It seemed to be one of the words he had the hardest time saying. “She had it when Ursula sent her here?”

Killian nodded. “After,” he said, pointing at himself. 

“She arrived after you?”

He nodded again, then turned the instrument so Logan could see the back. “Llll…look, look.” All along the neck and body of the _muhlte _were carvings similar to the ones he’d seen on Mikhail’s knife. Logan reached out to inspect it closer, hesitating for a second before Killian nodded his consent and handed the instrument to him. Logan ran a finger across the smooth wood, once again finding several symbols and numbers he recognized. Even the pegs at the top of the neck where the ends of the strings were wound had small, identical equations carved into both sides of the knobs.

“I can understand some of these,” Logan said, “but what are those?” He indicated a few of the symbols he didn’t recognize.

Killian grabbed a bag from his opposite side that Logan hadn’t noticed before and rummaged around in it, pulling out a roll of barkpaper and a rough stick of charcoal. He drew the symbols in a column down the page, writing their meanings next to them in scratchy capitals. One was made of two overlapping circles—like a Venn diagram—denoted the combining of two elements. A circle with a dot in the middle indicated the repelling of something, and conversely a circle with a cross through it represented attraction.

Logan scanned the list with growing fascination. “And what’s that one?” he asked, pointing to one of the symbols Killian had drawn: a crescent with a circle nestled inside. Next to it, he’d written _arcana._

Killian thought for a moment. “Sss….source of–of–of pow–ower. Ihhhht’s a con–conduit.”

Logan’s insides wilted. “I don’t mean to disappoint you, Killian, but a conduit won’t do someone like me much good. I don’t have any power to start with.”

Killian shook his head, confused, and reached back into his bag. He pulled out a small folded piece of barkpaper Logan recognized as the material needed to create an orb of light like the one he held in his lap. Killian held the closed flap of paper up for him to see, pointing to the charcoal symbols drawn on it. Flipping it over, Logan found the opposite side contained the symbol _arcana._

Logan’s heart skipped a beat. It had been too dark to see the first time he’d used the papers, but sure enough…

“You aa….already ha–have,” Killian said with an ecstatic smile.

“How is this possible?” Logan breathed, taking the paper and inspecting it. “I… I thought—”

“Come here,” Eudora commanded, and Logan looked up. She’d gotten up from her loom, staring down at the two of them. Logan hadn’t even noticed the clacking had ceased. Killian smiled at her and her eyes softened somewhat. 

Logan stood. “Can I help you?”

Eudora’s expression returned to its hardened state as she met his eye. “I need to take your measurements,” she said, pulling a thin length of fabric from a pocket within her dress. The dress was made of similar material to the skirts she’d made Mikhail and Daveigh, though it was stained a deep purplish red. The same one she’d worn the night they’d arrived. Logan had figured she’d simply conjured it for herself—she was a witch after all, and as far as Logan had seen, magic had little limitation on what it could or could not perform. Now, having seen the loom, he thought it was more likely she was simply a very skilled seamstress. “Unless you _want _to remain in your filthy noke clothes for the rest of eternity.” 

“Where did you acquire such a machine?” he asked, approaching the loom. He noticed more symbols like the ones Killian had on his _muhlte _carved into the beams. 

“Arms up,” she said, wrapping the narrow fabric around his waist. “Killian made it for me.” 

“He _made _it? By himself?” 

She glanced up at him. “Yes. You’ve forgotten how long we’ve been here, child. He had several centuries to get it right. Besides, he used to be a carpenter.” 

“Really?” Logan looked back at Killian, who had resumed playing the _muhlte. _

“Killian was a man of many professions,” she said, pinching the fabric where it overlapped. 

She held out a hand and Killian tossed her a piece of charcoal. “His father was a blacksmith and trained him until he apprenticed with a carpenter instead.” She marked the cloth where her fingers were pinched. 

Killian chuckled. “Ha–ay–ated that.” 

“Yes,” Eudora said, a small smile playing at her lips. “His father didn’t approve of the profession, much less marrying said carpenter’s daughter a few years later. A skirt will be faster, but I could fashion you pants if you wish,” she said, stepping off the stone dais and walking to a corner of the room lined with at least a dozen wooden crates. She lifted a hand and motioned for him to follow. 

“A skirt will be more than sufficient,” Logan said, trotting after her.

Opening one of the crates, Eudora revealed rolls and rolls of that same whitish fabric. She unwound a length of it, referencing her measuring tape and looking Logan up and down a few times. 

“How much cloth have you made? This is quite impressive,” Logan said, running a finger over one of the rolls. The weave was perfectly even and tightly spaced. 

“Far too much, I think,” she muttered, pulling the fabric away from the crate, closing the lid, and folding the remaining cloth over the top. Eudora reached up and plucked a thin blade from where it rested on a small stone shelf. Like Mikhail’s knife, it was a pale quartz with a wooden handle, though the body was significantly thinner and the blade curved up at the end. More mysterious equations ran down its length, though these seemed different. 

Eudora pulled the knife along the lines she’d drawn, barely applying any pressure and yet the fabric split cleanly, as if cut by the sharpest of scissors. “Are you and Patton similar enough I could use the same measurements?” she asked absently. 

“He’s three inches taller than me,” Logan said. “I’m not sure how our waists compare.” 

“I’ll just make it adjustable,” she muttered, more to herself than to Logan. Once the rectangle of cloth was cut free, she gave him a look and Logan immediately lifted his arms as she wrapped it around his hips.

“Where do you get all this thread?”

“Your questions never end, do they?”

Logan swallowed. “Sorry.”

Eudora sighed. “There’s a plant that grows near the freshwater springs that has threads of fiber inside of the stalk,” she explained, making a few more marks around the waist of the skirt. “There isn’t a lot, so I have to harvest it slowly to make sure it grows back.”

“I see,” Logan said, biting back the flurry of questions running through his mind. For a plant-based fiber, the cloth was extremely soft. Surely there was some processing involved, or perhaps magic. Satisfied, she pulled it away and returned to the top of the crate, using it as a tabletop and grabbing her knife again. 

“Thank you,” Eudora said so softly, Logan almost didn’t hear it.

“For what?” 

“Talking to Killian,” she said, trimming a miniscule strip from the bottom hem. 

Logan bit his lip. It wasn’t his place. He had no right to weigh in… but it seemed so obvious to him. Eudora glanced over at him.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie,” she snapped, shoving the fabric into his arms and turning her back. “Put it on. See if it fits right and tell me what you’re thinking.”

A little self-consciously, Logan stripped and kicked his old clothes to the side, wrapping the skirt around his waist. He tied the corners in a knot and tucked the ends into the waistband. 

“Why do you and Killian stay in this cave?” he asked, and Eudora turned back around, inspecting her work. 

“He can’t handle too much stimulation in the state he’s in,” she said, motioning for him to turn in a circle with a finger. “The last time we ventured past the beach, he had an episode.”

“How long ago was that? How can you be sure what caused it?” Logan pressed. 

Eudora pressed her lips into a thin line. “I am keeping him safe.”

“From what? You just thanked me for _talking_ to him,” Logan said incredulously. “I hope you know that’s something he shouldn’t have to be _craving_.” 

Eudora looked away. “He’s fragile.”

“No, he’s not. Your faith in him is,” Logan spat, anger growing. He pointed over at Killian, who had stopped playing, watching them with growing concern. “He’s a certifiable genius that you’ve kept locked up because you’re too obsessed with what you perceive as a failure!” 

Now it was Eudora’s turn to get angry. “How dare you,” she hissed. “You have no idea what he’s been through.”

“What about what he's going through right now? Do you really think you’re helping by keeping him here? Have you even talked to him enough to know how he feels about it?” Logan demanded. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re the fragile one.”

She gripped her thin knife in her hand. "You're wrong!"

“When are you going to realize that _he doesn’t blame you?!”_ Logan bellowed back. 

Eudora’s nostrils flared “You _insolent child, you _**_know nothing!”_** she screamed, Logan flinching as her voice sent shivers through him. Eudora stepped toward him, knife raised. Logan felt a hand on his shoulder, throwing him backward, and suddenly Killian was there, arm up defensively as Eudora’s knife slashed downward. Blood spattered on the rocky ground, a long gash running down Killian’s forearm. Logan stumbled back, barely keeping his footing.

Eudora immediately paled, looking as if she might faint. “What have I done?” she breathed, dropping the knife. "What am I _doing?" _

“Stop, Dora,” Killian said forcefully, and she flinched. 

“I… I didn’t mean—” she stammered, reaching toward Killian’s wound tentatively as if to heal it, but hesitated. “I sounded just like her, didn’t I?” she whispered miserably, covering her mouth with her hands. 

Logan noticed Killian’s hands just barely trembling. “The bo…boy is rrrri–hight, Dora. I d–don–don’t blame… –ame you for thi–this,” he said, gesturing to his mouth. 

“You were suffering and I... I could have done so much better,” she lamented. “With the right tools, I could have—”

“No,” Killian cut her off. “You di–did–did–did,” he stuttered, stuck on the word. Logan opened his mouth, but Killian raised a hand to stop him. Logan refrained, understanding. She had to hear this from him. 

“You di–did yyyyour best, Dora,” he said, blood dripping from his elbow. “I’m okay.” 

"I can't believe I actually..." Eudora said, beginning to back away. She looked like she might bolt. Killian stepped forward and wrapped her in a hug instead. She dissolved into tears. “I’m sorry,” she cried into his chest. “I’m so sorry. I should have asked. I should have _known, _but I–I didn’t even _think—_and you were so_ unhappy_ this entire time…”

“T–Tahti said w–we–we learn ffrrrrom the pas…–ast,” he said, stroking her hair. 

She laughed wetly. “To correct the future. I remember.” 

Logan gathered his old clothes into his arms and cleared his throat. Eudora stiffened, though more with shame than anger. “Thank you for the skirt,” he said. “I’ll leave you two alone.” He hadn't exactly gotten the idea for getting of the island he'd been hoping for, but he figured sticking around wasn't the best course of action. 

Eudora gently pushed away from Killian to look at him. “I… I apologize for attacking you… and arguing when you only meant well,” she said, genuine despite how hard it looked for her to say those words. 

Logan nodded. “I accept your apology.” 

She gave a small smile. “Thank you. Please tell Patton I’ll have his skirt ready soon.”

“I’ll let you give it to him yourself,” he said encouragingly, nodding goodbye to Killian and exiting the cave. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bird flocking phenomenon Logan describes is called murmuration. There are several videos online depicting the event for reference.
> 
> The type of loom Eudora works on is called a “barn loom” or “four poster loom” since it has four posts on each side, making it almost cube shaped.
> 
> Muhlte is pronounced mool-tuh.


	32. heirlooms from sea funerals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman makes some new friends, and Virgil faces Amaryllis with mixed results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: negative self talk, panic attacks, depictions of blood
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from "Snowmen" by Agha Shahid Ali

The Witchlands were grander than Roman could have ever imagined. Pixies zipped through the air in swarms or lazed about on wildflower petals. The faces he saw in trees winked back at him. Saplings sprang out of the ground when he stepped too close and raced off, their roots wheeling beneath them like so many tiny legs, propelling them to the safety of more mature trees. The larger trees twisted and shivered, touching branches with their neighbors as if communicating in some silent language. 

Virgil had calmed down a touch after Ursula had left, though he’d refused to tell Roman how he’d managed to get the witch off their trail. He walked next to Roman, looking around with slow-emerging relief, his shoulders gradually relaxing. 

Virgil closed his eyes and took a long inhale. “I didn’t think I missed this place. Not after everything that happened.” 

“But?” Roman pressed with a growing smile. 

Virgil rolled his eyes good-naturedly, lips quirking up into a smirk. “It's… I don’t know, nostalgic, or something.”

Dorian stopped, and Roman nearly ran into him. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked. 

Dorian looked over his shoulder at the two of them. “I am going to return to my serpentine form, Virgil. Do not be alarmed.” 

Virgil hesitated, looking more confused than afraid. “O–okay. Thanks,” he said. Dorian gave a curt nod and disappeared in a sharp crack of golden light. Virgil flinched, but didn’t look scared. Dorian reappeared in his demon form, gold scales glittering in the dappled sunlight. The trees leaned away from him, as if in surprise. 

Remus let out a breathy chuckle. “Awesome.”

Dorian let out a rumbling sigh, like he’d taken off his shoes after a long day at work. _“We are only a few hours from the capital,” _he said, slithering forward over the grass. _“Where is our destination in relation to the city, Virgil?”_

“The Capital Sea,” he said, then looked over at Roman. “It’s right next to the city. It won’t take us long to get there.”

Dorian continued without another word. Roman tensed as Remus jogged up to the demon and, without preamble, placed two hands on his scales and swung up onto his back, straddling just behind Dorian’s head like he was riding a horse. 

“Onward to the capital!” he cried dramatically, raising a fist. 

Virgil made a choking noise that might have been a laugh or just sheer surprise. Dorian glanced up at the goblin, black tongue flicking through the air testily. Roman waited for the demon to shake him off, or even snap him up and swallow him whole for such arrogance, but Dorian did nothing of the sort. He simply slithered onward, paying Remus little heed. 

“All right, then,” Virgil laughed, shaking his head. 

Roman snorted. “I’m a little offended. He never offered me a ride,” he pouted. Virgil snickered, mouth ticking up into that half-smile that set the butterflies in Roman’s stomach raving. 

They continued through the enchanted forest for a while. The sun settled down near the horizon, casting diagonal rays of amber light down the through the trees. As they’d walked, a passing swarm of pixies had noticed Remus sitting on Dorian’s back and figured they’d hitch a ride as well, the group of at least fifty miniscule, glowing, winged people alighting all down Dorian’s back. They weren’t more than four or five inches tall across the board, but no two were alike—a vast rainbow of different skin, hair, and eye color combinations. Roman had tried to contain his laugher at the twinkling sight, but lost it when Virgil compared him to a string of christmas lights. 

Again, Dorian did little to scare them off, reinforcing Roman’s growing theory that the demon wasn’t the bloodthirsty monster he claimed he was—at least not all the time. 

The pixies chatted with each other rapidly, the sound like the tinkling of tiny bells. They gave Remus a wide berth, the ones closest to him watching him defiantly. Remus glanced back at them, licking his lips and brandishing the steak knife Roman had given him last night—and apparently still had with him. 

_“Don’t be a fool,” _Dorian said, and Remus hid the knife behind his back. 

“What? I’m hungry!” he whined. 

_“As much as it would entertain me to see you try to take on an entire swarm of pixies,” _Dorian said, tongue wagging through the air, _“we don’t have time to deal with a goblin cursed with bad luck thirty times over. We’re here for a _reason_, remember?”_

“You’re no fun,” Remus muttered, tucking the knife away. 

“I’m a little hungry, too, actually,” Roman said, pressing a hand to his stomach. A few of the pixies turned to look, as if noticing him for the first time, their expressions wary. A few whispered in each other’s ears, pointing at his sword. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t—I’m not going to _eat_ any of you, that’s absurd,” he said, releasing the casual hold he’d had on his sword hilt. The pixies’ expressions of wariness turned, oddly, to a look of offense, as if Roman not wanting to eat them was some horrible insult. He floundered under the gaze of so many judgmental little eyes, struggling for what to say.

“Roman, stop talking,” Virgil hissed.

“No, I don't want them to think—I mean, they’re all so pretty, I’d never _dream_ of—”

Virgil winced and ran a hand down his face. “Here we go.”

The pixies collectively lit up like multicolored lightbulbs at the word _pretty_ and swirled into the air, their excited voices combining into a cacophony of bells. Roman squinted from the sheer brightness of it all as they flocked around him, several alighting on his head and shoulders, or swinging happily from his fingertips. 

“What’s happening? What did I do?” he asked helplessly as the pixies covered him. They were actually quite strong as a group, pushing him around in stumbling circles as if they were dancing. 

Virgil watched with amusement. “You gave them a compliment,” he said. “You're lucky you praised them as a group. Pixies are very vain and jealous creatures. If you’d complimented one in particular, you’d either have to do the same for all of them, or risk offending the rest of the swarm.”

Roman swallowed. “What happens if I offend one?” 

Virgil cocked an eyebrow. “Only one, and you’d maybe sneeze a little, or step in a puddle. Get a whole swarm angry?” he laughed. “You’re looking at _days_ of bad luck.”

Roman chewed his cheek, considering. “Dorian? How much farther would you guess it is to the Capital Sea?”

_“At the pace we’re going, the sun will have set already,”_ he said, obviously annoyed at the delay. _“The city gates will be closed.”_

“Then we’ve got time,” Roman said with a smile. He lifted his hand, singling out a beautiful pixie perched atop his knuckles with flame-colored skin and maroon hair tied up into a bun. Their eyes were solid black, and a little too big for their face, like they were a cartoon. “You are absolutely stunning,” he said. “Radiant as the setting sun.”

The pixie’s face split into a glowing grin—quite literally, and Roman immediately felt energy in the swarm change. The rest of the pixies hesitated, as if not quite sure what they’d heard, before going absolutely bonkers. 

“You’re insane,” Virgil said, shaking his head but unable to hide a fond smile.

* * *

The forest darkened over the course of their walk, but Roman had no need for a light, as the dozens of glowing pixies perched on his arms, shoulders, head, and hands provided more than enough. Despite their numbers, they didn’t weigh him down. He spoke to them each in turn, both to pass the time and to satisfy his uncontrollable curiosity. Though it had taken a minute to calm them all down enough to sort out some way of complimenting them all in an orderly fashion, eventually he had each pixie step up onto his knuckles for their turn.

A pixie with opalescent skin and translucent hair like fiberoptic strands stepped off Roman’s knuckles, smiling at the compliment she’d received. Roman was unable to keep a grin off his face. The sheer closeness of so many magical creatures at the same time seemed to fill him with an unexplainable, almost giddy, energy. A green skinned pixie rose off her perch on his shoulder, the vibration of her wings thrumming in his ears and tickling his neck. She landed delicately on his knuckles, expectant of her compliment.

“You,” Roman said, smiling, “have already had a turn.”

She shook her head, pouting slightly, her voice a frantic jingling.

“No, no, I distinctly remember talking about your hair,” he said, careful not to inadvertently compliment her again. He’d have to start all over again if he did. “I mentioned Nature and how she’d feel about it.” _There, _he thought triumphantly. Roman had deliberately left out the fact that he’d claimed Nature would be _jealous _of the small ivy vines coiling away from her scalp in a springy cloud. The statement was neutral enough. He hoped she wouldn’t be able to take either offence or a compliment from it.

The green pixie studied him for a moment, hands on her hips, before glancing at the other pixies around her questioningly. Roman’s heart raced with an excitement that was untethered to any actual source as the swarm responded enthusiastically, chittering and beating their wings like hummingbirds. 

Nodding, the green pixie knelt and pressed a kiss to Roman’s knuckles. 

Roman yelped as magic sparked through him like hot electricity—not painful, but certainly surprising. Virgil, who had been lost in his thoughts up until this point, tensed, whirling toward him and clutching the talisman at his neck. Dorian turned. 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Virgil asked, frantic. “Did you offend one?” 

“She kissed me,” Roman breathed. 

Confusion replaced Virgil’s fear, and his head cocked to the side. “What?”

Looking down at his own hand, Roman saw a shimmering golden sun appear on the top of his hand, like some kind of metallic tattoo. 

“How do you feel?” Virgil asked warily. 

“Fine,” Roman replied with a laugh. “More than fine, actually.” 

“What is your name, witch?” the green pixie asked and Roman jerked in surprise, almost dislodging a few resident pixies. 

“I can _understand _her,” he gushed, barely catching himself before he complimented her deep, alto voice. 

Virgil approached, taking the hand that had been kissed and pulling it toward himself for inspection. The pixies that had been sitting on his arm took to the air, hovering in front of Roman and chattering back and forth. 

“He’s a familiar.”

“Why’s he look like a mortal?”

“Pretty button.”

“Pretty eyes.” 

“I like his jacket.”

“He’s a bit pale, though, isn’t he?” 

Virgil rubbed a thumb over the sun-shaped symbol on Roman’s hand. “They’ve marked you,” he said. 

“Is that good or bad?” Roman asked, his ears filled with the background chatter of fifty small people all around him. They didn’t have high-pitched voices, like fairies did in the movies, but they were significantly quieter than his or Virgil’s voices would be from the same distance. 

Virgil shrugged, releasing Roman’s hand. “One less enemy, I guess. It’ll tell other pixies they can trust you. Did they ask you anything?

“Oh, yeah!” Roman turned his attention to the green pixie hovering in front of his face. “I’m Roman, by the way.”

The pixies when absolutely ballistic, almost knocking Roman over. 

“Pixie boy!”

“He’s ours now!”

A firm hand secured around his upper arm and yanked him out of the swarm, pixies tumbling through the air. Virgil threw Roman behind him. 

_“Back off_**_,”_ **Virgil snarled at them all, looking as if he was ready to fight the entire swarm right then and there. 

“He gave his name to us,” the green pixie said, confused at his distress. 

“What is she saying?” Virgil muttered over his shoulder. 

Roman blinked. “She, uh, she said I gave them my name.”

Virgil’s expression darkened. **_“He’s mine,” _**he growled. Roman’s stomach fluttered. 

The pixies laughed, a beautiful but derisive sound.

“He’s cute when he’s angry.”

“He thinks he can take what’s ours, how funny.”

“Look, the button’s glowing!”

“Stupid little familiar.”

Roman’s anger flared. “Hey!” he started, but Virgil held up a hand. 

_“Must I handle everything for you two?” _Dorian sighed, turning and slithering back toward them. Remus let loose a sharp-toothed grin from his perch on the serpent’s back, reaching for his knife again. The pixies hadn’t seemed afraid of Dorian before when they’d also hitched a ride, but now that he was paying them deliberate attention, they seemed to waver in the air. 

Dorian rose above eye level with the green pixie, his tongue flicking through the air right next to her. She cringed away from him. _“The little prince has given _me_ his entire name. Do you still wish to compete for ownership?”_

Virgil turned, looking at Roman with absolute horror. “You _what?” _

“I—I don’t…” he stammered, still trying to understand what was going on. It had been so long ago, and nothing crazy had happened when he’d told Dorian his entire name. He also hadn’t been in the best states of mind at the time. 

“We do not want a quarrel with you, Drok’ben, and will withdraw our claim of ownership” the green pixie said, the rest of the swarm gathering behind her. “However,” she said, smiling over at Roman, “we will not rescind our mark of fellowship.” 

Dorian and Virgil both looked at Roman for a translation. 

“She said they’re taking back wanting to own me,” he fumbled, the concept not entirely clear to him yet, “but I’m keeping the mark.” 

Dorian then looked to Virgil for a long moment. Virgil eventually nodded, acquiescing but still looking as if he were ready to leap into a fight. 

The pixies disappeared into the night, leaving the forest much darker in their wake.

* * *

The walk to the capital ended up lasting until the sun was in the last stretches of sunset, as Dorian had predicted. Roman had been so entranced by the shimmering mark on the back of his hand ever since the pixies had left that he hadn’t noticed until Dorian announced that they’d arrived. 

The tree-line broke, revealing an enormous, glittering city sitting against the shore of a wide, blue expanse—the Capital Sea. The sun had already dipped below the watery horizon, painting the sky a gorgeous crimson. The light nearly tricked Roman into thinking that the city itself was also blood-red. After a moment of confusion, however, he realized that the city was, in fact, white. The walls surrounding the capital were made of smooth, pearly stone. Even from this distance, Roman could tell they were gargantuan. Dark specks that he realized were guards dotted the parapets.

_“I shall remain within the confines of the trees,” _Dorian said, coiling up on himself with the rustling noise of scale-on-scale that still set Roman’s nerves on edge, reminding him of those terrifying yet thrilling nights running blindly through a forest with nothing but instinct and adrenaline keeping him alive.

“Good idea. We don’t want them sounding the alarm,” Roman said. “Virgil and I can go summon this dead witch-lady, and we’ll meet back up later.”

Virgil had his arms folded tight against his chest, worrying his lip between his teeth. “Actually,” he began, “I think it’d be better if I do this alone.”

Roman frowned. “Are you sure?

“I’ll be fine,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. Roman could sense the tension in it.

“Okay,” he said, relenting. “Just be safe, yeah?”

“I will.”

Roman wiggled his fingers dramatically in Virgil’s direction.

The familiar cocked a dubious eyebrow. “What was that?”

“Good vibes,” Roman said with a shameless smile. “Cheer up, Emo Nightmare. Everything will be fine.”

Virgil didn’t reply, an unreadable expression on his face, then turned and trudged across the green field toward the ocean.

* * *

Virgil sat in the dark on the edge of the dock, leaning back against the railing and dangling one leg off the end. The stars were so bright here. After all his time away, he’d almost forgotten how amazing the night sky was.

Thankfully, the dock itself was hidden from view of the forest by the city wall, so Dorian and Roman wouldn’t be able to see him sitting there, doing nothing. 

_I’m such a coward,_ he thought miserably, kicking his foot aimlessly as it hung off the dock. The water lapped gently against the barnacle-covered dock posts, and would have been serene if Virgil wasn’t in a sour mood to begin with. There was no getting past it. He’d have to face Amaryllis, eventually. 

It wasn’t as if he wasn’t used to people hating him, but he’d selfishly held onto the version of Amaryllis that didn’t despise him for sitting back and watching Ursula murder her and toss her body into the sea. It had been nice, thinking there was at least one relationship he hadn’t ruined in some way… but it couldn’t last forever. 

Virgil hooked a finger through the yarn around his neck, grasping his talisman. The spell would have to be rhymed out in English. Something like this was too complicated and could go wrong too easily for the vagueness of witchtongue—especially when he didn’t have a solid grave or bones to work with. Coming up with something shouldn’t be too hard. Every witch and familiar went to school and had endless combinations of rhyme and meter to invoke magic engraved into their minds, but for Virgil, those days with Ursula seemed impossibly far away. 

Virgil bit his thumb, deeper than he’d meant to, but he’d need a good amount of blood to draw the sigil, and permanent markers weren’t exactly lying around. He squeezed his thumb until he’d filled his opposite hand, cupped to cradle the thick liquid, with a couple tablespoons’ worth of blood. 

**“Isumani,” **he muttered, healing his thumb in a blink. Dipping his index and middle fingers in the blood, he drew the sigil right on the dock, taking that time to begin constructing a proper spell in his head. When the circular symbol was finished, Virgil wiped his bloody hand on his pants, double checking for mistakes. 

Finding none, he closed his eyes, and began,_ “Spirits heed my call this hour, search this water deep and dour, wake the witch from slumber deep, to __make a pact__ and knowledge reap.”_

His talisman grew hot in his fist, purple tendrils of magic leaking from it. The shadows along the water pulsed and danced, just as they had all those days ago in his room when Logan had saved his life. This time, however, he had his talisman and full use of his powers. 

The Song of Death began, and three separate spirits—vaguely humanoid apparitions without faces—presented themselves in front of him. Virgil gave them a curt nod, and they disappeared beneath the surface of the water with a mournful howl. They weren’t actual people—just leftover emotions from sad or spiteful ghosts, left behind like shed skin. 

Virgil waited, listening absently to the Song as a coldness began to fill him. Spirit magic was slightly different from its cousin, necromancy, in that it involved the utilization of spirits to accomplish a goal, or to summon a ghost or other entity, _for _them instead of doing the actual summoning ceremony themselves. They also commonly used supernatural patrons to funnel power through instead of using their own soul. _Backdoor necromancy, _as many liked to call it. It wasn’t well liked, last Virgil had been in the Witchlands, but wasn’t nearly as taboo as necromancy. Virgil remembered Ursula’s mother, disgusted by the fact that he excelled in such an area. He’d found out much later that Ursula’s grandfather had committed suicide via the Song, so Virgil couldn’t really blame her mother for how she’d acted around him. 

The Song of Death filled his ears, lilting verses of witchtongue he couldn’t decipher through the fog steadily filling his mind. If he listened too hard, he’d risk losing track of the spell. 

That was the downside of spirit magic, as opposed to necromancy. Sure, the magic was less direct, but he couldn’t perform a spell that took over three minutes. Having the full use of his powers kept him coherent for as long as possible, making the spell casting much easier, but the result would be the same. 

Virgil sensed his spirit envoys returning to the surface, and could practically taste the caustic, seething vindictiveness seeping from the ghost they escorted. Virgil knocked his head back against the wooden post, already feeling himself recede into his mind to prepare for however long Amaryllis chewed him out, resigning himself to his fate.

“Virgil? You’re in human form?” Amaryllis said when she, at last, arrived. Virgil winced. She looked around. “Where’s Ursula? When I get my hands on that witch…” she fumed, floating back and forth above the water as if pacing. 

Virgil waved a hand and muttered, **“Baesta.” **The spirits dissipated, and the Song of Death faded away, leaving him feeling hollow and exposed. The breeze now felt grating against his skin, everything the wrong texture. She hated him. She’d tell Roman, convince him to hate him too…

“I can’t believe this,” she ranted. “What’s she even _doing_ back in the Witchlands? Trying for the throne again? I thought she was over—wait, Virgil, what’s wrong? You’re shaking,” she said, hovering a bit above the surface of the water. 

“It’s just me,” he said. “Ursula isn’t here.” He couldn’t even _look_ at her, chewing his knuckle like some kind of pathetic child being scolded for breaking the family vase. 

Her brow furrowed. “Then how did you get here?” 

“I don’t know,” he muttered, shrugging. His heart began to race. “I… have a friend who needs your help. I wouldn’t have bothered you, but you’re the only one I knew who could help him and—and I know you probably hate my guts and I don’t have any right to drag you out here, but I just thought that—thought you could help him ‘cause he’s the witch queen’s heir and I have _no idea_how to even start—”

“Virgil. _Virgil, _take a breath,” Amaryllis pleaded, placing a hand on his shoulder. Numbness spread from where she touched him, cold and paralyzing. He flinched away from her, and she pulled back. “Right. Sorry. Still getting used to this whole ghost thing,” she said. “You look terrified. Are you okay? Is something the matter?”

"Why would you care?"

"What do you mean? _Of course I care. _Virgil, what's going on?"

Virgil looked up at her incredulously. “You mean you don’t hate me?” 

“Hate you? Why would you think I felt that way?” she said, horrified. 

He flushed, looking down at the sea. “I let Ursula kill you.”

Amaryllis went still and silent for a long moment. “What happened was not your fault, Virgil.”

He closed a fist around the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging until his eyes pricked with tears. “I just sat there and did nothing,” he spat, drawing his knees into his chest. “I had plenty of time to—to _do _something, _anything, _but I—I just…_” _Virgil bit off a sob before it could take hold. 

“Look at me,” Amaryllis said, coaxing him gently. Virgil did, and he nearly couldn’t bear it. All the memories came flooding back in vivid detail. Her blank stare after being tricked into drinking laced tea, Ursula leading her by the elbow to the docks, her steps slow and shuffling as she no doubt fought the serum in her blood. The way her expression didn’t even change when Ursula drove a knife between her ribs and into her heart. She didn’t even make a sound, eyes cloudy and unseeing even before she was dead. The slap of her body hitting the water. The slow drip of crimson blood from the tip of Ursula’s blade to the dark wood of the dock, hungrily soaking it up. 

Now, she was pale, with her dark hair loose and undulating as if she were still underwater. She appeared in the same clothes she’d died in: a white blouse and thick green walking skirt that stopped just above her ankles. Her form was partially translucent. He could see the horizon and stars through her chest… right where a jagged wound gaped. The upper left quarter of her blouse was stained rusty brown with old blood. 

“Virgil, I don’t blame you for what happened,” she said. 

“You don’t?” he asked, genuinely surprised. 

She gave a sad smile. “I could never hate you, Virgil. Now,” she said, straightening, “let’s make this contract, yes?”

Virgil sniffed, still a little unsure, but not willing to argue the point further. “Yeah, okay. Give, um… give me your hand, please,” he said, holding his own out. Summoning a person’s ghost was one thing, but as soon as Virgil left the site of the casting, she would return to the afterworld. That is, unless they made a contract to keep her here for a certain amount of time. 

Amaryllis took his hand, and Virgil tried to hide the shudder that passed through him. Just because he specialized in this kind of magic didn’t mean he was immune to its effects. 

“Right,” he began, grabbing his talisman with his free hand. “This might be a little gross, sorry,” he apologized, then bit his thumb again. Another downside of death magic. There was a lot of blood required. Amaryllis stared at his talisman, her lips pressed into a thin line. 

“You still have your talisman,” she said. 

“What? Yeah, of course I do,” Virgil said, tracing a bracelet of crimson blood around his wrist, then a line over the top of his hand and onto Amaryllis’s, finishing with a similar circle around her own wrist. He began before Amaryllis could ask any more questions about it. **“****Touhli****,” **he intoned. It was the word for binding, magically speaking. 

The blood glowed violet, making Virgil’s skin tingle almost uncomfortably. 

Amaryllis watched it greedily. “I forgot how much I missed doing magic,” she breathed. Virgil figured as much. Unlike magical creatures, when witches died, they could no longer interact with the physical world. There were only a few exceptions, but they entirely depended on the summoner, spell, and how much autonomy they wanted to give them. The spell Virgil had used was common, unfortunately keeping Amaryllis almost entirely separate from the real world, but it didn’t carry as many risks as the harder, more complicated spells he could have used. Another testament to his cowardice he could hang about his neck. 

“Okay, now I’ll state my conditions,” he explained, shifting a little and clearing his throat. It had been so long since Virgil had done something so formal with his magic, he just hoped he remembered all the jargon. The light pulsed a bit as he began, “The ghost Amaryllis will remain bound to the familiar Virgil for three months, during which time she will train the witch Roman to use his powers well enough to defeat the dragon witch Ursula. Does that sound okay?”

“Why three months?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Do I get to set my own conditions?” she asked, her hair flowing about her head, defying gravity. 

Virgil shrugged. “If you want to.” 

She gripped his hand a touch harder, smiling. “I will train the witch Roman in three months, by which time the familiar Virgil will have rescinded use of his talisman.”

Virgil paled. “What?”

“That was meant to be a crutch to help you survive until you healed properly,” Amaryllis said seriously, glancing at the button at his neck. “You’ve turned it into a prosthetic limb.”

Virgil’s breath caught in his chest, hitching. “You don’t understand, if we don’t fulfill our contract, _neither _of us will move on. You’ll be stuck here as a ghost, and I’ll be the same once I die. Are you _insane? _I can’t—I’m _nothing_ without this!”

She smiled, the gesture warm despite her numbing grip on his hand. “You’re stronger than you believe, Virgil. I have faith in you.”

_You shouldn’t,_ he thought helplessly. He couldn’t break their hands apart now, or the contract would be void and they’d suffer the punishment without even having a chance to fulfill the terms. 

“Is that all?” she asked innocently, as if she hadn’t just condemned Virgil to an endless supernatural existence. “I’m not too familiar with necromancy.”

“Spirit magic,” Virgil corrected numbly, returning his attention to the glowing blood on their hands. “These are the conditions, as stated by both parties, sealed by the blood of the summoner, sanctioned before the eyes of Avalian. **Naika,” **he finished, the sealing word traveling through his talisman with a shudder. The marks grew hot on their skin. He was sure Amaryllis couldn’t feel any of it and tried his best to hide the wince of pain crossing his face as the light disappeared, leaving dark, solid lines where the blood had once been—circling their wrists, traveling over their knuckles, and down their middle fingers like dark tattoos. Virgil pulled his hand away, getting to his feet. 

“Come on,” he said, turning his back to her and walked up the dock. “Let’s meet back up with the others.” 

Amaryllis floated alongside him, looking down at her chest, prodding hesitantly at the crusted wound. “Is there any way to change how I appear?”

Virgil flipped his hood up against the cold, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “It… mainly has to do with me and how I subconsciously picture you, since I cast the spell and everything.”

“Oh.” 

He laughed dryly. “Sorry, you’ll probably be stuck like that for a while.” He stepped off the dock, sand muffling his footsteps. They stayed a reasonable distance from the wall of the city, not wanting to attract the attention of wary guards. Especially dressed as he was. Virgil’s stomach clenched. Dorian, of course, would be staying outside the city, and Virgil could get past the guards as a familiar. Goblins were known for smuggling things in and out of the Witchlands themselves, so sneaking into the capital wouldn’t pose much of a problem. Roman, on the other hand, was woefully unprepared to fit into witch culture, not to mention he was dressed like an outsider. He didn’t have a local accent, didn’t know idioms, and he’d attract unwanted attention like a flashing neon sign. That is, if they could manage to get past the guards in the first place. They’d likely ask him a million questions about his business there and Roman knew _nothing_. 

“This witch heir,” Amaryllis started, yanking Virgil out of his spiraling thoughts “How long have you known them?”

Virgil hunched his shoulders forward, glancing around to make sure they weren’t being watched. “Almost a decade, now, I think. Why?”

Amaryllis folded her arms. “I’ll tell you once I’m sure,” she said. 

Virgil raised an eyebrow dubiously, but didn’t press. The hike back up to the edge of the forest took only a few more minutes. There was no firelight to guide him, but Virgil could sense Dorian’s overwhelming power like a beacon through the dark night. Virgil’s eyes narrowed as they approached the tree line. Amaryllis covered a gasp of surprise. 

Dorian was coiled around where Roman and Remus slept, fencing the small patch of undergrowth protectively. Roman lay on his back, arm draped over his eyes, mouth wide open and snoring loudly. Remus was curled into a little loaf opposite him, apparently as far from the witch as he could manage while remaining within Dorian’s little ring of protection. Virgil would have smiled at Roman’s appearance if not for the nearness of the demon. 

_“Welcome back,” _Dorian whispered, head resting atop his coiled body, watching the two of them unblinkingly. His tongue whipped out toward them. _“Amaryllis,” _he greeted with a slight dip of his enormous head. 

“Dorian,” she breathed. “How… it’s so good to _see you!” _she gushed, arm jerking like she wanted to reach out to him but had stopped herself. Virgil looked between them, surprised. He knew that they knew of each other, but hadn’t expected such a warm reunion. 

_“Likewise,” _Dorian replied. 

“I’m honestly surprised Roman fell asleep,” Virgil muttered, looking over the witch's face. He couldn’t remember the last time Roman had looked so truly relaxed. 

_“He didn’t. I put him to sleep magically,” _Dorian said. _“With permission,” _he added when Virgil bristled. Remus shifted, grumbling at the noise. 

“Is this him, then?” Amaryllis asked, nodding toward Roman. 

_“Indeed. He and Virgil have been inseparable for some time,” _the demon said pointedly. Amaryllis gave a knowing smile. 

“Am I missing something?” Virgil asked, irked that they both seemed to be in on some kind of joke. 

“Ursula isn’t here, right?” Amaryllis said, folding her arms across her bloody chest.

“Yeah,” Virgil said, carefully approaching Dorian. He didn’t like the demon being between him and Roman, but if he wanted to get to him, he’d have to climb over Dorian. He’d have to _touch_ the scales. Virgil understood why Dorian encircled them—his presence alone would keep most creatures with common sense at a distance—but a strange concoction of both repulsion and gratefulness filled his gut at the same time. At least he’d grown comfortable enough with the demon not to experience flashbacks every time Virgil looked at him, and Dorian had been… almost _courteous_ since they’d arrived. It was all quite confusing. 

“How’d you get into the Witchlands, then?” Amaryllis asked. 

Virgil pretended to inspect Dorian’s scales absently while he attempted to bolster the courage to actually clamber over the beast. “I don’t know.”

“Really?” she deadpanned. “No idea at all?” Virgil looked up at her, growing defensive. Her eyes widened incredulously, and she nodded toward Roman. 

Virgil snorted, finally getting up the nerve to just go for it. “You think he had something to do with this? He knows, like, three words in witchtongue.” He placed two hands on Dorian’s scales, never taking his eyes off the demon’s slitted eyes. Virgil slowly pushed off the ground, swinging one leg over Dorian’s spine. 

Amaryllis shook her head, bursting into a fit of laughter. “You’re hopeless, Virgil. You’re becoming his _familiar.” _

Virgil jerked in surprise so hard he lost his balance and toppled onto the dirt at Roman’s feet. “That’s impossible,” he said, sitting up. Dorian turned his head to regard him with one eye, and Virgil couldn’t help but flinch. He felt helplessly small looking up at the demon from the ground, and he wasn’t even a cat. 

“No,” Amaryllis said, her humor giving way to genuine concern. “It’s perfectly normal, actually.”

Virgil’s brown knit. “But I thought a witch bonded to their familiar for life.” His voice went soft as he supplemented, “That’s what I was taught, anyway.”

Now Amaryllis just looked angry. “That bond is two sided, Virgil, and it is by no means permanent. A witch and familiar aren’t _fated_for each other. Sometimes pairings don’t work, and they go their separate ways.” 

Virgil stared at her blankly, his mind slowly… reluctantly connecting the dots. It wasn’t possible. It _wasn’t…_ and yet here he was, in the Witchlands with no other feasible explanation for it. Ursula couldn’t locate him back when the four of them faced off against her in Wakeby. Just earlier today, she admitted he was getting harder to contact. 

And those nights sitting with Roman outside the forest—before all of this had happened… surely he should have noticed. He’d felt an immediate connection, obviously, but his feelings for Roman had obscured it. Virgil had simply ascribed it to attraction, rather than the magical bond between familiar and witch. Something bubbling and acidic roiled within him. 

“So,” Virgil started, letting out a shaky breath, “you’re telling me I stayed with her for _four hundred years…” _That absurd, chaotic pressure inside him kept building, creeping up his throat until it escaped in manic giggles. Tears pricked at Virgil’s eyes as he laughed into his knees, fists clenched in his hair. 

“Virgil,” Amaryllis said cautiously, floating forward a few paces. Remus blinked, looking around in confusion. 

“… _and I could have left _**_the entire time?!” _**Virgil’s vision blurred and his head pulsed. He felt electrified and like he was drowning all at the same time. His hands trembled, laughter of utter, horrible disbelief tumbling out of him. _Centuries. _Hundreds upon hundreds of years wasted. Worthless. All that pain and suffering had been completely avoidable. 

Amaryllis was speaking, but he couldn’t tell what she was saying. Dorian shifted, lifting his head and muttering something, his voice rumbling through the ground, all around Virgil. It was _all around him. _His heart felt as if it would explode in his chest. It was too much. Too much, _too much, __toomuchtoo_**_muchtoomuch_****_—_**

Virgil dug his nails into his scalp till he bled. He couldn’t run and leave Roman alone with the demon, but he had to do _something_ before he combusted. There was a hand on his shoulder. Roman’s voice. Muffled as if underwater but it was _him. _Virgil reached, grabbing hold of whatever part of him he could find—a shirt, a wrist, a waist—and clung to Roman for dear life. 

“Hey, hey, hey….” Roman crooned sleepily, wrapping his arms around him. “What happened, Virge? Who do I need to fight?”

“That might have been my fault,” Amaryllis said, and Virgil felt Roman stiffen beneath him. Virgil still couldn’t breathe entirely, gripping fistfuls of Roman’s shirt like the witch would disappear forever if he let go. 

“I thought he knew you two were bonding as witch and familiar,” she continued softly. “I didn’t realize he’d been in denial for so long.” 

_“My presence is not helping,” _Dorian said, and Virgil bristled with protectiveness encased in terror. A growl that sounded suspiciously like a sob escaped his throat. That beast wouldn’t get near Roman. Virgil would make sure of—

_CRACK!_

Even through his closed eyes, Virgil could see the flash of golden light. He screamed, though he tried not to, clamping his mouth shut halfway through and reducing it to a terrified whimper. _Nature spirits almighty, I’m pathetic. Even when he’s being considerate, I can’t stand to be around him. _

“… Apologies,” Dorian said in the softest tone Virgil had ever heard. He almost sounded confused at himself. Near his feet, Virgil heard Remus spring up and dash after him. 

Roman held him tighter, running his hands through his hair. “What’s tha—oh, no you’re bleeding. Shhh, Virgil. It’ll be okay… **isumani****,” **he intoned. Roman’s magic flowed through him, steady and confident and perhaps a bit overboard, but Virgil didn’t care. Tension leaked out of him and he went limp against Roman’s chest, exhausted from the entire affair. Despite the world-rending news Amaryllis had dropped on him, he was relieved that Roman was becoming his new witch. Excited, even. But his sleep-deprived, over-anxious mind had had quite enough for one day, and promptly receded into unconsciousness. 


End file.
